


Private (School) Parts

by Lonov



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boarding School AU, Concert, Dancing, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marijuana, Masturbation, Private School AU, Sexual Tension, Smoking, UST, showering, wealthy! ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonov/pseuds/Lonov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian hadn’t expected much from his junior year of high school, spent at the prestigious and expensive Chicago Academy. Then he meets Mickey Milkovich, his detention-seeking, chain smoking, rebel-without-a-cause roommate, attending the school on a scholarship he never wanted, and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> FYI, I have never been to a boarding school or lived in Chicago. I did some research while I was writing this to make it as realistic as possible, but if you're a boarding-school kid reading this and going, "that doesn't happen!" consider it artistic license.

For the first time in years, Ian was nervous about going back to school. He wasn’t sure why—generally speaking, he didn’t care for his pretentious boarding school or the people who went there. His best friend was his brother Lip and always had been; there wasn’t a person there he was excited to see or a class he was thrilled to attend. But it seemed a part of him was under the impression that was going to change this year and so, electric with nerves and excitement, Ian tossed and turned all night.

 

Thanks to his insomnia, the next morning came sleepily. Ian hit snooze too many times to count, struggled to get out of bed, and finally stumbled down to the kitchen around the same time he was supposed to be arriving at school. Lip wasn't much better; the girl in the townhouse down on West Madison had been over again—her name was Karen, Ian remembered, from the first and only time they'd been introduced. If their loud fucking had managed to keep Ian awake the night before, he could only imagine how exhausted Lip was. Both boys appeared in the kitchen late the next morning, and Lip only had time to grab money for bagels and coffee before they were scrambling to get out the door.

 

Classes didn't start until the following Monday, after orientation weekend; as a boarding school, the Chicago Academy liked to give its students some time to settle into their new home. The Gallaghers had been late to the start of the school every year Ian had been in high school, and this year no exception.

 

It was difficult—with wealthy, drunk parents who were always in New York or Paris, an older sister who spent most mornings trying to escape her latest one night stand, and younger siblings whose private elementary school didn't start until weeks later—to pack everything they would need for the next few months, drag their suitcases to the L, and still manage to arrive at school on time. Truthfully, the Gallaghers were not the most responsible bunch. Usually Ian just packed what he couldn't do without for a while and went back for the rest of his clothes later. The fact that Ian and Lip were still attending school at all was a success. Since the Gallagher Beer corporation was such a success, none of them really had to go to school in the first place; their older sister Fiona had already dropped out. They had an enormous bank account and a job available at Gallagher Beer whether they went to school or not.

 

Not that their irresponsibility was really a problem, because when the Chicago Academy did call their parents to complain, Frank and Monica flung a few thousand dollars their way and the issue was solved.

 

It would have been nice to start on a good note, though, Ian thought through a yawn as he walked with Lip to the main office to sign in late. He'd had such high hopes, too—but Ian often felt like something exciting was going to happen to him, and truthfully, nothing ever did. Usually the feeling was just a result of one of his manic phases, and was easy to control with the right amount of medication.

 

Junior year was going to be the same as ever.

 

He waited patiently while the two kids in front of him signed in first. They weren't people Ian had ever seen before, but The Chicago Academy was a relatively big place, and new students weren’t rare.

 

What caught Ian's attention about the pair were their matching sullen expressions. They were clearly related, with the same silky dark hair and pallid skin; there was even the hint of a black eye on each of their faces.

 

"It's your fuckin' fault we're in this shit hole," the boy muttered to what Ian assumed was his sister, as they stepped away from the late sign-in book and turned to leave.

 

She ignored him and instead caught Ian's eye. "The fuck are you looking at?" she hissed.

 

"Um," Ian began, but Lip cut him off.

 

"He wasn't looking at anything," Lip said, and he dragged Ian over to the sign-in book.

 

The girl glared and left the office, trailing closely behind her brother.

 

"The fuck was that?" Ian wondered.

 

Lip shrugged. "No idea. She was pretty hot, though."

 

"You'd think anyone with a black eye was hot," Ian pointed out.

 

"Not true," Lip defended. "You gave that kid a black eye last year after he called you a fag, but he wasn't very hot at all."

 

Ian grimaced at the memory. "Don't pretend you don't get into fights just because it gets your motor going."

 

They scribbled their signatures into the book, and Ian glanced at the name above theirs on the paper. Two jagged signatures were written there: Mandy and Mickey Milkovich. No one else was on the page.

 

"At least we aren't the only ones who are late to orientation weekend," Ian said optimistically. "For once."

 

"Hm," Lip frowned. "You think they hate us?"

 

Ian laughed. "They don't even know who we are. But, yeah, seems like it."  As they left the office, Ian watched him from the corner of his eye. "You like that girl."

 

Lip smirked.

 

"You've got some serious problems, man," Ian said, punching his brother in the arm. "She didn't even say hi to me before she told me to fuck off."

 

"It's how I like them," Lip sighed. The first floor of the school seemed empty, with most of the students settling into their rooms on the upper levels. The boys paused in the hallway to recheck the letters the Academy had sent earlier that month with their room numbers. "Fifth floor?"

 

"Sixth," Ian replied unhappily. They stepped into the elevator. "I thought Frank called them to say they have to dorm us on the same floor."

 

"As if Frank ever does what he fucking says he will. He said he and Monica would be home to say goodbye before we left for the Academy, too."

 

"I guess." Ian said. “I’d rather have them as far away as possible, anyway.”

 

Lip nodded his agreement. "Junior orientation started already. You probably won't have time to put your stuff down and make it. Lucky for me, senior orientation hasn't even begun,” he didn’t look happy about it. The elevator let out a self-assured ding, and Lip stepped into the revealed hallway. "Hey, I'll text you after, tell you how it goes. Let me know if anything cool happens while I'm falling asleep to the sound of Dean Minster's voice."

 

Ian smiled. They had a similar conversation every year. The Academy's schedule of the first day at school began with four orientations—one for each grade—in the auditorium. The Gallagher boys always seemed to arrive in time to miss the boring lectures from the dean, who got thrills out of telling the students, barely through the doors of the school, all the things they weren't allowed to do. Since senior orientation was last, they'd actually arrived in time for Lip to make his this year.

 

The elevator opened to the sixth floor, and Ian carried his suitcases through the hallways. It was funny that Lip had told him to watch out for anything cool: apart from the rare fights and the times they didn’t get carded buying cigarettes, cool things didn't happen to the Gallaghers. They lived the life of spoiled rich kids whose parents didn't care about them, and it made them exactly like every other person at their school.

 

Ian opened the door to his assigned room; he assumed his roommate wouldn't be there, since orientation for juniors was still underway, and people were roomed with someone else from their grade, so he was surprised to see a figure standing on a sloppily-made bed, hanging a poster on the wall.

 

When he heard the door open, the boy turned around.

 

"Oh, fuckin' great," the boy muttered. "It's carrot top."

 

Mickey Milkovich glared at Ian through his black eye, and Ian thought he might actually have some interesting news to tell Lip.

 

Mainly, he was pretty sure his roommate wanted to kill him.

 

"Actually, it's Ian," he said. "Ian Gallagher."

 

He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused that his roommate hated him already, and for no reason.

 

Mickey ignored him, and Ian turned to his own side of the room. The walls next to his bed were sparse, and he didn't have any posters to hang, but he was used to calling these small, empty rooms at the Academy home.

 

"You're a junior this year, right?" Ian asked. In past years his roommates were always the ones the initiate conversation, but judging by the pained expression on Mickey's face whenever he talked to Ian, Ian thought he would have to step up this year.

 

Ian refused to spend the next ten months living with someone who hated him. Mickey Milkovich was going to like him whether he wanted to or not.

 

"The fuck do you care?" Mickey asked.

 

Ian shrugged. "Just making conversation. Maybe we'll have some of the same classes. I'm not great at math but I'm good at English, so we might be able to help each other out."

 

Mickey glared subsided, somewhat. "I can't do math for shit, man."

 

Ian's mouth curled into a half-smile. "Me neither. My older brother Lip—the one who came to sign in late with me—he's good at it. Maybe he can help both of us."

 

Mickey hummed but said nothing else. He went back to hanging his posters. "Why were you late, anyway? I thought you rich bitches lived for this shit. Expensive schools and fuckin' punctuality and crap."

 

Ian let out an involuntary snort. Ignoring Mickey's question, he asked incredulously, "Did you just call me a bitch?"

 

"I call 'em like I see 'em, Gallagher."

 

"You don't even know me."

 

"Don't gotta know you," Mickey said as he finished hanging his last poster, hopped off his bed, and began unpacking the rest of his suitcase. "I know people like you."

 

Ian rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to spend the year fighting with his roommate. If Mickey didn't want to be here, that was his own problem; Ian wasn't going to get caught in the crossfire.

 

"Whatever, dude," he muttered, annoyance creeping into his voice. "I'm not gonna fight you."

 

"Yeah, ‘cause you’d fuckin’ lose," Mickey muttered.

 

"’Cause I have better things to do,” Ian informed him. "We could spend all year arguing or we could try to be civil to each other. So, tell me: is that a Unified Knife poster on your wall?"

 

Mickey raised his eyebrows, seemingly taken aback. "Fuck, yeah, it is. You listen to them?"

 

"Sometimes," Ian admitted. "Usually when I'm working out."

 

"It's some good shit to work out to," Mickey agreed. "They got a gym at this school?"

 

"There's one on the next block. If you show your student pass at the door they let you in for free."

 

"Cool," Mickey said. He collapsed onto his bed and proceeded to ignore Ian entirely.

 

Satisfied with their developing amity, Ian returned to his suitcases.

 

A long time passed with them in silence, Mickey lying on his bed and Ian sorting through his clothes. Eventually, Mickey broke the silence. "Name's Mickey Milkovich, by the way," he said, not knowing Ian had seen it written in the late arrival book that morning.

 

A warm feeling filled Ian's chest as their eyes met, and it was stupid—so stupid—but Ian’s stomach was full of butterflies.

 

 _No,_ Ian told himself. _Bad. No crushing on roommates. Absolutely no crushing on roommates who probably hate you. That is the worst thing you can do._

 

“Nice to meet you, Mickey,” Ian said, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smile.

 

Mickey stared at him for a moment before he turned back to face the wall. “Yeah, you too, Gallagher.”

 


	2. Arguments and Doodles

Orientation weekend passed quickly, which Ian was grateful for. After they moved their things in on Friday, Ian and Lip proceeded with their usual pre-class schedule, which mostly consisted of getting yelled out by the dean for being late to orientation, hanging out in the park across from the Academy, and meeting up with their friends. Or Lip’s friends, really, because Ian had never really had a strong enough connection with someone for it to last into the next school year.

For whatever reason, it was difficult for Ian to make friends at the Academy. In previous years Ian had befriended people, hung out with them, even hooked up with some, but the relationships were never deep between them. Regardless of the reason why, he didn't have a lot of friends; truthfully, he wasn't terribly upset about it. Lip had always been his best friend.

So when Lip left Ian to go out with his friends from robotics club that Sunday night, Ian was stuck trudging back to his dorm room. He didn't expect to see Mickey, who had been largely absent since their initial conversation on Friday, presumably because he was with Mandy, beating up some freshmen.

But that wasn’t why, when he saw that Mickey was in the room, Ian was so surprised. No, he was shocked to see that Mickey had one of Ian's storage boxes, and he was rummaging through it like he was looking for something.

"Yo, what the fuck, man?" Ian asked, immediately walking over to where Mickey was sitting on his bed. "Is that mine?"

"Yeah," Mickey said through the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "You don't have anything good."

"What the fuck?" Ian repeated. He could barely think, he was seeing such a deep shade of red. His fucking roommate was trying to steal from him. That was some shit Ian had never dealt with before. Mostly because they had the money to go out and buy whatever they wanted, anyway, instead of taking a used version of it from someone else.

Furiously, he swung at Mickey—and was startled when, before his fist could make contact with the other boy's face, his hand was trapped in Mickey's grip. They struggled for a while, Ian trying to get his right hand back and simultaneously hitting Mickey with his weaker left one, and Mickey, ducking Ian's swings until finally, with a grunt, he managed to pin Ian onto the floor. Still fighting against Ian's struggles, Mickey crushed him with his weight and sat on Ian's chest, his own hands circling Ian's throat in a clear warning. He glared into the other boy's face.

"Don't ever fight a kid from the fuckin' South Side," Mickey barked, though really, Ian thought, he had no right to be angry. The only reason Ian had tried to punch him in the first place was because Mickey had been trying to steal his things.

But... wait. "South Side?" Ian asked, surprised, and his voice came out choked from lack of air. He'd never met anyone from the South Side—at least, not the part of the South Side Mickey was talking about, where everyone knew how to fight and carried weapons like extra limbs. The part of the South Side that had been in the news just last week when someone was gunned down on the sidewalk.

Mickey loosened his grip on Ian's neck, but didn't get up.

Ian breathed deeply now that he was able to again. "I didn’t know you were South Side.”

"Fuck you," Mickey said, but now that oxygen was coming back to Ian's brain he could tell something was off. Mickey's breathing was more labored than it should be after such a brief scuffle, and his hands—his hands were still at Ian's throat, so what was digging into Ian's chest?

"Oh, shit," Ian said, eyes going wide as he realized what was happening.

Mickey scrambled to get off the floor and tugged his t-shirt over his loose-fitted sweat pants.  
An obvious bulge was still visible though the fabric.

"I," Ian began, but he didn't know how to finish. I hope you won't go through my things again now that I've given you a hard-on? I hope that boner changed your mind about beating me up?

Before any coherent thoughts were formulated in his brain, though, Mickey had him by the throat again and they were up against the wall.

For a very brief moment, Ian thought he was about to be kissed.

When he saw the fire in Mickey's eyes he realized just how unlikely that was.

Mickey leaned his face in close to Ian's and spat, "If you tell anyone, I will fucking kill you."

Then he stormed out of the room. He didn't even grab his shoes first.

Ian didn't move for a while after that. And not just because there was a noticeable tightness in his own jeans.

******

Ian's alarm went off at seven o'clock the next morning, and he rolled out of bed, literally, onto the floor. In his defense, the twin-sized bed at the Academy were much smaller than his bed at home. The fact that he'd stayed up late waiting for Mickey to come back (with no avail—Ian had given up around midnight when he still hadn't showed up) hadn't helped, either, and he was so tired when he woke up it took him a minute to orient himself.

Then he remembered. He was at the Chicago Academy, on the floor of the room he now shared with Mickey Milkovich, a boy who hated him enough to want to steal his things, but not enough to have a soft dick when their bodies were close. Also, Ian noted with some appreciation as he untangled himself from his blankets and glanced over at the sleeping figure in Mickey's bed, a boy who had gone a day without shaving and now had an impressive amount of stubble.

Ian had always liked stubble, but he wasn't about to tell Mickey that.

He got dressed sluggishly, grabbed his bag of toiletries, and headed over to the communal bathroom. On weekdays he liked to get up early so he had time to fully wake up, shower, and get breakfast, which the school served at seven, before classes began at eight. When he got back to his room and found Mickey still asleep at 7:45, he determined he was the only one who felt that way.

It wasn't like Ian wanted to help Mickey out, really, because he'd been a real dick and Ian deserved an apology, but, if he was honest with himself, he wanted to know what would happen if he poked the sleeping lion.

He also wanted to examine this new pliant, sleeping Mickey up close, and see if he looked quite as intimidating in the morning sunlight coming through the window.

"Hey," Ian said. Nothing happened. Louder he said, "you should wake up."

Mickey made an annoyed sound. Without opening his eyes, his middle finger came out from under the blankets to point directly at Ian. A second middle finger came soon after.

For the first time, Ian noticed the tattoo on his knuckles. It read "F U C K - U - UP," and it was enough to make Ian reconsider waking him.

"Yeah, okay," Ian muttered to himself. He needed to get to class, anyway; his first period was Geometry with Ms. Zenger, and he'd heard she was tough on the students. On his way out the door he noticed that the blankets had adjusted around Mickey, and they now fell low enough that Ian could check out Mickey's chiseled pectorals, which were easy to see through his undershirt.

With one last sigh, Ian shut the door behind him.

Luck seemed to be on his side, because he stepped into class just as the bell was ringing. The other students were there already, and the only open seats were a pair in the back, so Ian quietly sat down and took out his notebook. The first day always consisted of the teachers lecturing them about what they could and could not do for the rest of the year, so after about a minute of class, Ian’s attention was lost.

He was paying so little attention that he barely noticed someone sit next to him, and if it hadn’t been for the annoyed huff when Ms. Zenger chastised him for being late, Ian may not even have noticed that his new roommate was now beside him.

Perhaps luck wasn’t on his side after all, Ian reasoned, as he watched Mickey out of the corner of his eye. Mickey looked aggravated, as usual, and he was seated as far away from Ian as he possibly could be, considering their desks were right beside one another. He was leaning so far over he looked as if he were about to fall off the seat.

He was also biting his lip, straight teeth over pale skin, and Ian couldn’t help but stare. Fuck, Mickey was so hot—rugged as fuck, that was the only way Ian could describe him, and his unshaven stubble only added to the picture.

They should probably discuss last night before any more time passed where Mickey thought Ian hadn’t enjoyed their close proximity just as much as he had.

Impulsively, Ian ripped a piece of paper out of his notebook and wrote, “We should talk about last night.”

He folded the paper and slid it onto Mickey’s desk. The other boy’s eyes flashed to the note, then to Ian’s face, and back again before he finally picked it up and opened it. He spent a long time leaning over his desk while he scribbled a reply.

When he flicked the note back onto Ian’s desk, he understood why. Under Ian’s messy handwriting was a detailed sketch of a stick-figure Mickey standing with his fist embedded in stick-figure Ian's face. He had even used a red pen to draw a mop of hair on Ian’s head.

Ian choked out a laugh, disguised as a cough when Ms. Zenger turned to glare at him.

“I think you got our heights mixed up,” Ian scribbled back. “I should be the one towering over you.”

He tossed the note onto Mickey’s desk. His only response was the middle finger.

“It’s only 8:45 in the morning and that’s the third time you’ve flipped me off today,” Ian whispered, foregoing the note-passing since they were in the back of the room, anyway, and he doubted anyone could hear them. “The effect of it is starting to wear off.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey growled.

Ian shrugged and turned away. As much as he genuinely enjoyed pissing Mickey off—he liked to watch the angry pink blush fill Mickey’s cheeks, because it reminded him of the arousal on Mickey’s face the night before—he was getting tired of the abrasive attitude constantly being directed at him.

He liked Mickey’s hard-to-get persona, but it would be nice if they could share an actual conversation, one that didn’t involve the words “fuck you” or the middle finger. They’d sort of done that for a few minutes on Friday; it was Ian’s goal to get back to that place again.

When the period ended and Mickey pulled him aside, it became clear that they wouldn’t be there anytime soon.

He waited for the other students to leave before he turned to Ian. For a second it seemed like he was going to grab Ian—his hand raised but then fell, as if he’d thought better than to touch him.

“Whatever you think happened last night, it didn't happen," Mickey said, voice brimming with aggression. He looked furious, and his face was close enough to Ian that he could see how bloodshot his eyes were.

Ian couldn't help it: Mickey made him nervous. Something like fear tickled the hair on the back of his neck, and a quiet voice in the back of his head reminded Ian that, regardless of how fun to tease or attractive or possibly-gay Mickey was, he was still South Side, and that meant he was dangerous. He didn’t do idle threats.

"You’re high," Ian whispered, examining Mickey’s face. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have in the back of his math class, and it definitely wasn’t one he wanted to have when Mickey was stoned, but Ian couldn’t bring himself to move. Blue eyes pinned him to the spot.

“Is there a problem, boys?” Ms. Zenger asked.

Ian let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. “No. We were just leaving.”

He tried to grab Mickey by the hand, but the other boy shook him off. “You don’t tell anyone what you think happened,” he warned, as he made his way toward the door. Students from the next class were starting to trickle in, and Mickey seemed intent on ditching Ian and running as far away as possible. “You hear me, Gallagher?” he demanded, moments before he was swallowed up into the sea of people in the hallway. “No one.”

Then he was gone, lost in the crowd. With a sigh, Ian rubbed his aching head and made his way to second period.

It was going to be a long year.


	3. Shitty Chinese Food

School ended at 3 o’clock, and by 3:15 Ian was waiting for Lip in the park across the street from the Academy. They had a three-year tradition of hanging out together almost everyday after school. Today was different: there was an additional figure trailing behind Lip as he approached. She was tall and slim, with dark hair, pale skin, and an immediately recognizable face.

“Hey,” Lip greeted as they sat down on the bench beside Ian. He took out a pack of cigarettes and passed it around. “This is Mandy. Mandy, my brother Ian.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mandy said. It sounded sarcastic, but maybe that was only because Ian wasn’t used to the Milkoviches being polite to him. “You’re the one rooming with my brother, right? He told me he was stuck with a firecrotch and a Gallagher.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”

Mandy snorted. “I feel bad for you. We shared a house for seventeen years, and it ain’t fuckin’ easy.”

“No, it isn’t,” Ian agreed. Then, because he had nothing to lose, he added, “Why’s he such an asshole, anyway?”

“How should I know? Probably got his brain fucked up from being pistol-whipped too many times,” she said.

“Pistol-whipped,” Lip repeated. “What, like being hit in the face with a gun?”

“Um, duh.” Mandy said. “What, they don’t do that on the Far North?”

Ian and Lip exchanged glances.

“Some people probably do,” Lip ventured.

“No one’s home for long enough at our house to get pistol-whipped,” Ian added. It was true: his parents had money to blow and they blew it, spent twelve months out of the year traveling the globe on Frank's family's cash. But Ian didn't dedicate much of his thoughts to them; he was thinking back to the scene with Mickey earlier, where he’d been so full of aggression that Ian thought he was about to get hit. If he came from a family like the one Mandy said they did—well, the aggravation made more sense if he was raised on anger.

“Anyway, this is the park,” Lip said, arms gesturing around lazily. “I promised I’d give you a tour, so here it is.” When he grinned at Mandy she punched him in the arm and dragged him down for a kiss.

Not wanting to intrude on their personal moment, Ian turned his eyes away. There usually was a girl on Lip’s arm this early in the school year, someone who he was using for sex just as much as she was using him for it, but he’d never brought someone to their spot in the park before. Ian wondered if that meant anything.

He also wondered about that punch, and if that was how Milkoviches showed affection. It seemed like it. Perhaps all he needed to do was get Mickey to fight him again, and that was the way to his heart.

The thoughts made Ian feel slightly ridiculous—the fact that he was still interested in someone who was consistently a jerk to him, even more so—so he decided to change the subject.

When Mandy and Lip pulled apart, Ian asked, “So this is your first year here?”

“Yeah,” Mandy replied. “Some do-gooder wanted to sponsor a poor South Side family, and we were the lucky ones. There was a drawing and all you had to do was put your name in, so I figured why not. I needed to get out of there. Thought this would be my great escape.” She scoffed. “So far it’s just a bunch of spoiled rich dickfucks circle-jerking over their newest Mercedes and their grades in advanced chemistry.

“But I know Mickey hates it here,” she added, expression unreadable. “He didn’t want to come in the first place—didn’t even want me to enter the fucking contest, but I wasn’t about to let us stay South Side forever, not if we had the chance to get away.”

“He seems… angry,” Ian said.

Mandy snickered. “That’s Mickey. Always looking for a fight."

“You have any homework yet?” Lip asked. Ian shook his head. “Good. We were going to head over to that Chinese food place down the street, skip out on the crappy school dinner. You in?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ian said. They got up to leave, and just as they were about to start their trek down to road, he paused. “Should we invite Mickey?”

Mandy stared at him. “If you feel like getting verbally abused all through dinner,” she muttered.

“I think it would be nice if we all went together,” Ian said, because he did. He liked Mandy, and as stupid as it was, he liked Mickey. He wanted to spend more time with both of them—wanted to crack Mickey’s shell open until he saw his inner layers.

Mandy seemed to disagree, but she took out her phone nonetheless. “Mickey? It’s Mandy. I’m going out for Chinese with the Gallaghers. Firecrotch wanted to invite you… Yeah, well, that’s what I said. He insisted… All right, fine. Whatever. Fuck you.” She snapped her old phone shut and looked at Ian. “He said to fuck off with your shitty Chinese food.”

Ian sighed.

“Ready to go?” Lip asked, rubbing his hands together.

“Yup,” Ian replied, with faux-satisfaction. "I'm starving."

He was hungry, but he wasn't sure what for. Attention, maybe. Attention from Mickey. Apparently that was the lot he had drawn in life.

******

Somehow, some way, in the hour he was out to dinner with Lip and Mandy, Ian managed to piss Mickey off. He knew this because when he got back to his dorm room, Mickey was lying on his bed and ninja stars were being thrown at the wall. More specifically, Ian's ninja stars.

"Dude," he said. "You need to stop going through my shit."

One of the stars flew toward Ian and wedged in the wall six inches to his left.

"Dude!"

"The fuck were you doing inviting me out to dinner with you, Gallagher? You tryin' to set me up on some gay fuckin' date?"

"Jesus Christ," Ian said, keeping a wary eye on the star still in Mickey's hands. He was fingering it rather innocently, slender fingers working over the smooth back, but Ian didn't doubt that if Mickey wanted to make a point he wouldn't hesitate to use them.

"Fuck, Mickey. They're gonna charge you to repair the walls."

"Good thing it's not my fuckin' money they're getting, then." The last ninja star whizzed across the room and embedded itself in one of Mickey's posters. He watched it for a second and then fixed glaring blue eyes onto Ian. "Why the fuck did you invite me to go with you, Gallagher?"

"To be friends, Mickey," Ian said honestly. "Not for a 'gay date,' so you can stop worrying. I just thought it would be nice if we all hung out, since it looks like Lip and Mandy are together now. You're new to the Academy and this part of the city, so—"

"You don't get to talk about where I'm fuckin' from," Mickey spat.

"Right," Ian said, left hand carding through his hair. "Yeah, okay. Whatever, Mickey. You want me to leave you alone, I'll leave you alone. Sorry to have fucking bothered you."

He stripped down to his underwear and threw his dirty clothes in his laundry basket. He was exhausted; the first day of school always wore him out. His sleeping schedule was sporadic thanks to his manic episodes, even now that he was on his meds, so he took sleep where he could get it. He planned on going to bed early tonight—if only he could find his pajamas.

"Did you see my pajamas when you were looking through my shit before?" Ian asked, "Or did you sell those somewhere on the black market?"

"Third drawer," Mickey said immediately. Ian looked up at him and was surprised to see the other boy staring openly at him; suddenly, Ian was aware of just how little clothing he was wearing. When their gazes met Mickey turned away, back to the comic book spread out across his lap. "There ain't no black market for pajama pants."

His tone wasn't condescending, though—it was playful, almost, like he found the idea amusing. Like he found Ian amusing.

It was enough for Ian to ignore the fact that Mickey had looked through all his drawers.

As it turned out, Ian’s pajamas were exactly where Mickey said they would be. Feeling awkward in front of a roommate for the first time since his freshman year, Ian changed hurriedly and crawled into his bed.

There was a new television show he’d been meaning to watch, so with nothing else to do he pulled out his laptop and streamed it online. But the more time Ian spent attempting to pay attention to the faces on the screen, the more Mickey’s face flashed into his mind. The more he heard the voices of random male actors, the more he wanted to hear Mickey’s voice instead.

He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he was going to talk to Mickey. Ian was nothing if not determined.

“So,” he began, shutting his laptop. “How was your first day?”

Mickey looked up from his comic with confusion on his face. “Which part of me ignoring you makes you think I wanna have a conversation?”

“What comic book is that?”

With a sigh, Mickey held it up for Ian to read. It was bright and colorful, but that was all Ian could observe; he didn’t really know anything about comics.

“I like that one,” he lied.

“Yeah? Well I fuckin’ don’t,” Mickey muttered, and he threw it to the floor. “Wish that rich fucker had bought me a laptop instead of sending me to this boring fuckin’ school.”

Seeing his opportunity, Ian went for it. “Do you want to use my laptop? I was just trying to watch that new show with the superheroes.”

“The one with that hot chick in leather?”

Confused, Ian said, “Um, I guess, yeah.”

Mickey eyed him for a moment and then turned away. “Nah, it’s cool, man. I’ll probably use it tomorrow when you aren’t here.”

Ian laughed at his honestly. “You can use whatever you want, just don’t hock anything.”

“I don’t know if I can guarantee that,” Mickey said, but there was a small smile on his face and he was obviously joking. He got off the bed abruptly and pulled his t-shirt over his head.

Rather than face any more awkward situations, Ian turned toward the wall and tried not to imagine the view he was missing out on. If the hardness of Mickey’s legs and abs during their tussle the night before had been any indication, it was definitely regrettable that he couldn't see them out from under the cotton blockade that was his clothing.

Ian had never been attracted to a roommate before. He wasn’t really sure what to do about it.

He decided to think up something else for them to talk about, instead of doing what he really wanted to do, which was jump Mickey’s bones.

A memory from this morning tickled in the back of his head, and Ian spoke before thinking. “You were high this morning, though, weren’t you?”

Mickey glared at him. “That too hoodrat for you, Gallagher?”

Ian laughed. “Lip and I get stoned every weekend. It's a Gallagher family tradition. I was just asking because—well, you missed orientation, and one of the big things they go over is how against drugs the school is. If they find one joint on you they throw you out. I’ve never actually been to orientation…” at Mickey’s raised eyebrows, Ian shrugged sheepishly, “we always get here late. But there’s kind of a tradition at this school of people overdosing, so they really crack down on drugs.”

“There’s a tradition of overdosing?” Mickey asked. “Here?”

The rest of the question was heavily implied. Here, where everyone has money and couldn’t possible have problems?

Ian met his gaze. “Everyone’s got issues, man.”

Mickey chewed his lip and turned away from him.

“I just wanted to warn you,” Ian said. “They freak out over weapons and stuff, too, so don’t show those ninja stars to anyone.”

“Okay… thanks,” Mickey muttered.

He was still biting on his lip. Ian couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“The fuck you looking at?” Mickey demanded, and Ian’s gaze snapped up.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I’m going to brush my teeth.”

Mickey’s comforting response was, “You don’t gotta tell me what you’re doing, man. Just ‘cause we’re roommates doesn’t make us fuckin’ married.”

“Obviously. But sometimes friends do things together,” Ian said as he grabbed his toothbrush and headed out of the room. “Like brush their teeth.”

Mickey watched him for a moment before slowly gathering his own toothbrush from his bedside table. “Yeah, okay,” he mumbled, and returned Ian’s smile with his own slightly-forced one. They walked down the hallway together, Mickey a few steps behind Ian.

“You have a lot of friends, Gallagher?” he asked, and kept his gaze on the floor when Ian looked at him.

“Not really, no,” Ian admitted.

Mickey huffed a breath and met his eyes. “Me neither,” he said. Ian couldn’t tell if he was upset about that or glad for it. Sometimes it seemed like Mickey didn’t actually want any friends. But it was an act… it must all be an act. Ian had spent his high school years far too lonely to believe that someone wouldn’t want friends.

Some of the other boys from their floor were in the bathroom when they arrived there, and since Ian knew them from previous years, he introduced Mickey to them. They ended up talking about—of all things—ninja stars, and how Mickey had thrown them into the wall. Dripping with wealth and living lives of luxury, the other boys longed for the rebellious attitude and disrespect for authority that Mickey had, which they could never dream of, and they worshipped him for it.

Mickey was less tense than Ian had ever seen him, and unless Ian’s eyes had deceived him, he even wore a full-blown grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are lovely!


	4. The Showers

"Am I ever going to get to try it?"

 

Ian, cross-legged on his bed, looked up from his laptop. "Try what?"

 

"The family business," Mickey said with a grin. "Gallagher Beer."

 

Ian snorted. "Sure, let me get out one of the several hundred cases I carry around specifically for moments like these." When a slim comic book crossed the room and hit him in the chest, he laughed. "Okay, okay, yeah, I'll get you some beers. Lip actually does have a supply of them for when he hangs out with his friends from robotics club, so I can ask him for some."

 

"Thanks, Ian," Mickey said, leaving his side of the room to pluck the comic from Ian's lap.

 

Ian tried not to gape at him. That was the first time Mickey had called him by his first name, rather than his last, or any of the various nicknames Mickey had made up for him, most of them offensive. Perhaps Ian had ascended his role as Firecrotch.

 

"So, what, you only call me by my first name when I do something for you?"

 

He meant it to be joking, but it wasn't taken that way. As though startled by what Ian said, surprised had called Ian by his true name, Mickey opened and closed his mouth a few times. _I didn't mean to_ , his face seemed to say, though Ian wasn't sure why it would be wrong if he had. He liked the way his name sounded on Mickey's lips. It was a sound he could listen to over and over.

 

Eventually Mickey shrugged and turned away. From that moment he seemed control his words more carefully, as though afraid something else would slip out that he didn't want said.

 

It's just a name, Ian wanted to say, multiple times. Of course, he loved the music of his name on Mickey's tongue. It made him feel as if they were closer than ever—but perhaps it was for that reason that Mickey didn't want to say it anymore.

 

Every time one of Mickey's walls came down, it seemed, two more rose.

 

******

 

Still, as the days passed, they got along better. For the first time in a long time, Ian had a friend who wasn’t immediately related to him.  Soon Ian's favorite activity became watching his presumptions about Mickey crumble.

 

By mid-October he was beginning to realize just how different the real Mickey was from the aggressively rough facade he put forward. He was tough—that wasn't debatable. He'd already been in detention once for getting into a fight with a kid in his freshman biology class (apparently the kid had whispered some comment under his breath about South Side imbeciles, and Mickey had put him right. Ian couldn’t help but to side with Mickey. By any stretch he couldn't be considered stupid, but the lack of funding and resources at his old public school left him with little of the information he needed to succeed at the Academy. When snotty, spoiled brats tried to pretend it was his own fault, Mickey did his duty to the community and punched them in the face).

 

But Mickey wasn't inconsolable. He wasn't unnecessarily violent. He wasn't half as impulsive as Ian—though, okay, Ian had his disorder to thank for this. When it came down to it, Mickey did what he needed to do in any given situation, and if that meant punching someone in the gut or getting outlandish knuckle tattoos to appease his father, he did it.

 

Actually, he was rather like a chameleon; it seemed he could adjust to any environment he was thrust into and come out in one piece. He was a survivor, and Ian was coming to truly admire him for it.

 

Now that they were actually something close to friends, it was getting more difficult for Ian to pretend he wasn't attracted to Mickey. He never watched him get dressed, because the creepy idea of it made his skin crawl, but that didn't mean it was easy for him to avert his eyes when he knew Mickey was naked three feet away.

 

Those were usually the times Ian disappeared to the bathroom to brush his teeth, or wash his face, or masturbate. Sometimes he even thought about other people when he was doing it, like the boy Luke who also lived on his floor, or Kash Karib, the Chemistry teacher he’d had an affair with the year before. (And, okay, Ian would never admit aloud how attracted he was to his teacher, but he'd always had a thing for older men. Actually, he would probably admit to his affair with Mr. Karib before he admitted to checking out Mickey's ass every chance he could, but that was only because he wanted to keep his teeth in the event that his roommate found out who Ian got a stiffy for).

 

They'd been living together for two weeks, and Ian still didn't really know if Mickey was gay. The signs seemed to point to bisexual, considering his woodie when he wrestled Ian and his constant comments amount the female physique. Recently, however, Ian had come to notice how false Mickey's voice was when he commented on a fellow female student, or the leather-wearing woman on their television show (which they'd been watching together almost nightly, though Mickey always sat feet away from Ian when they did). If Ian didn't know any better, he'd have guessed that Mickey was pretending to be attracted to women, was repeating the objectifying things he heard men say on TV and in reality, in an attempt to pretend he was straight.

 

Though why he would think he needed to prove his supposed straightness to Ian was a mystery. Unless he hadn't realized Ian was gay, in which case, well, his radar was off, and Ian would have to correct that misconception as soon as possible.

 

He'd thought about breaching the subject once or twice, but their friendship was still fragile. There were times that Ian said exactly that wrong thing and Mickey went off. If he was trying so hard to cover up his sexuality—and maybe he wasn't, maybe Ian had mistaken what had happened when they wrestled, and none of it meant anything—then there must be a reason for it. Ian wasn't sure about South Side politics, but he knew enough about juvie to know what happened to the kids who were perceived as weak. Mickey had been in juvie, more times than he could count, he'd said, and Ian wasn't about to push him about what had happened there, or what life was where he grew up.

 

Part of Ian—the English-nerd-with-a-death-wish part—wanted to slip Mickey some Oscar Wilde to read and let him know that the rumors about boarding schools being playgrounds for sexual experimentation were true. He didn't bother, mostly because he knew Mickey wouldn't read anything other than shitty comic books, and those only when he was bored to death.

 

Mickey had told him that himself one day, about refusing to read, and Ian had though he was exaggerating until he realized that he wasn't. This was determined one day, about two weeks into the start of the term, when Mickey came stomping into their room after school had ended. Lip and Mandy had been busy (Ian tried not to think about what they were doing), so he'd gone straight to his dorm after classes were over. Ian had been doing his homework for half an hour before Mickey crashed into the room and slammed the door shut, flexing his fists and grinding his teeth.

 

"Where were you?" Ian asked, looking up from his Chemistry work.

 

"I got called me into the dean's office," Mickey said, annoyed. "And when I got there she gave me this huge fuckin' lecture about how I'm not applying myself, as if I even signed up for this shit." He collapsed onto his bed. "If I still lived at home I wouldn't even be in school. My cousin's got a weapon business and he said I can help him when I drop out. I wasn't even going to go to school this year 'til Mandy put us in that stupid fucking draw and we got sent here."

 

Ignoring the idea of Mickey dealing illegal weapons, which made Ian's stomach knot in uncomfortable ways, Ian asked, "Why didn't you just stay there and let Mandy come alone?"

 

"Rich fucker wanted to sponsor a family," Mickey said as he shoved a cigarette into his mouth. Ian moved to open the window and let the smoke out. "I wasn't about to fuck Mandy over. One time when we were younger I ate one of her Pop-Tarts and she shaved my head in my fuckin' sleep, man. That bitch is crazy. Imagine what she'd do if I stopped her from coming here."

 

After a long moment of silence, Ian said quietly, "I'm glad you came."

 

Mickey stared at him from his place on the bed, scarred fingers wrapped around his cigarette. "Don't say gay shit like that to me, Gallagher."

 

Ian frowned.

 

"You want a cigarette?"

 

They smoked out the window and Mickey told him the rest of what had happened in the dean's office. Apparently Mickey—who was still in freshman English—was already failing the class this year.

 

Ian couldn't help it: he laughed. "That takes some serious dedication."

 

Mickey laughed with him, smiling as he flicked ashes into the air. "What can I say, man, I'm committed to my craft."

 

"They say what they're gonna do if you fail out?"

 

"I'll probably get expelled or some shit. Kicked back to the South Side." He blew circles with the cigarette smoke. "All the pot around here is shit, anyway."

 

The knots in Ian's stomach tightened at the thought of Mickey leaving. He could tell Mickey was trying to lighten the situation by joking about weed, and Ian wondered if it was for Mickey's sake or his own. He did seem to legitimately want to go back home—but it soothed Ian slightly to know that Mickey cared about him enough to acknowledge that it would be sad for Ian if he left.

 

And it would be sad. Actually, Ian would be devastated. Mickey was the closest friend he had other than Lip, and while that mostly spoke for how bad Ian was at making friends with other people, rather than how close he actually was to Mickey, their friendship still meant a lot to him.

 

"I can help you with your English work if you want," Ian offered. "I'm in an advanced course this year, but I can probably remember back to freshmen year."

 

Cigarettes finished, they shut the window. The cool October air filled the room, and Ian grabbed a sweatshirt and socks to layer himself in. Now that he wasn't standing next to Mickey, he felt much colder.

 

Mickey shrugged at Ian's suggestion. Unclear what that meant, Ian tapped his fingers on his dresser. "If you change your mind, let me know. Mandy could still kick your ass if you get expelled."

 

Mickey grinned as though he had said something funny rather than pointed out a looming threat. His teeth, sharp and white, glinted at Ian from behind full lips. For a moment when their gazes locked, Ian couldn't breathe.

 

The spell was broken when Mickey turned and grabbed some work-out gear from his bag.

 

"Gym time?" Ian asked, though he already knew the answer.

 

"Leg day," Mickey informed him."You wanna come?"

 

"Yeah, all right," Ian said. "Nothing better to do."

 

He wasn't lying, either: he really didn't have anything better to do than watch Mickey get all red and sweaty from lifting weights. It was possible he would never have anything better to do in his life.

 

******

 

An hour and a half later both boys returned to the dormitory aching and covered in perspiration.

 

Ian loved working out with Mickey. He’d never had a workout buddy before, and having Mickey there with him to spur him on and support him helped Ian get some of the best workouts he’d ever had. Even if Mickey’s idea of support tended to be along the lines of, “Come on, Gallagher, drop those weights now and you’re weak. Two more sets, let’s go!”

 

He also loved how, after the workout on their walk home, Mickey opened up. Post-exercise conversation was the most personal it got between the two of them, as if all of Mickey’s tension had been released in the gym and he was finally allowing himself freedom.

 

That night’s topic of conversation had been sex. Mickey had started it when one of the women walking down the road reminded him of an old fling—or, as Mickey had said, a fuckbuddy.

 

“Everybody fucked Angie,” Mickey said as they walked along. Ian couldn’t help but laugh at how blatant, how unapologetically blunt Mickey was. “Seriously. If you’d have been there, you’d have fucked her too.” Ian doubted that but chose not to interrupt. “Once I showed up to her house wasted, and I started talking to her little brother, telling him to get the fuck outta the room so me and Angie could get down to business. I wound up passing out on the couch, and when I woke up a few hours later Angie said it was her dog I’d been yelling at, and told me to fuck off.” He watched Ian’s reactions to his story, and seemed pleased with the hysterical laughter.

 

He prompted Ian for tales of his own sexual escapades, but Ian decidedly refused to share.

 

“I don’t have any interesting stories,” Ian informed him. In truth, there were some moments he could have brought up, like starting that rumor about Roger “Donkey Dick” Spikey, or unwittingly fucking one of the married men in his apartment complex after they met at a club, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to tell Mickey he was gay—and that was a problem, because he considered Mickey a close friend, but he also knew about Mickey’s very strict boundaries. Mickey didn’t talk about being gay. Instead, he made homophobic comments and pretended he’d never accidentally rubbed his hard dick against Ian's chest.

 

Ian wasn’t sure how Mickey would react if he knew he was gay, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be good. So Ian kept quiet about his own misadventures, and gladly listened to Mickey’s stories.

 

He was so busy thinking about how much he genuinely enjoyed Mickey’s company that he never had time to wonder what would happen when they got back to the dorms. He always showered in the morning—he woke up before the line got too long and it jump-started him for the rest of the day—and Mickey always showered at night. It worked out for Ian that way, because it meant he only had to think about Mickey naked and in close proximity when he changed in the morning and at night, and never had to worry about what would happen if he encountered a dripping wet, warm, showering Mickey in the bathroom.

 

Except tonight, because Ian definitely needed a shower after that workout, and he was sure Mickey did, too. Which meant they would be in the same place, at the same time, soaking wet and completely naked.

 

The thought alone was enough to send blood rushing to Ian’s groin.

 

So when Mickey grabbed a towel and body wash and headed to the bathroom, Ian was thrown when he yelled, “Coming, Gallagher?”

 

Because first of all, yes, Ian would be coming to the thought of Mickey in the shower. But also, no, he was not sure he could handle showering next to him right now.

 

Since he couldn’t explain this to Mickey, and didn’t have time to think up some grandiose excuse, Ian followed Mickey into the bathroom with a looming sense of dread.

 

There were four stalls and none of them were taken, so Ian quickly disappeared into the one farthest from the entrance, thinking Mickey would choose the one closest to the door. When Mickey instead brought his stuff to the shower stall next to him, Ian froze on the spot.

 

“You okay, Gallagher?” Mickey asked as he stripped. “You look sick. Did we work you too hard at the gym?”

 

Ian unfroze for long enough to turn his face away from Mickey’s body before scrambling into the stall. “Uh, yeah,” he said loudly. “It’s been a while since I worked my legs like that.”

 

“You really haven’t been getting much action lately, then,” Mickey joked.

 

Ian pretended like his dick wasn’t half-hard. He went through the motions of turning the water on and grabbing his soap, despite the fact that he’s never wanted to be more dirty in his life than he did at this moment with Mickey Milkovich.

 

The hot water did nothing to make Ian feel better; he imagined the way it was also falling against Mickey's skin, feet away, and how easy it would be for him to walk into the other stall and join him. At this point, he had to conclude that Mickey didn't like him back, regardless of any random post-wrestling boners that had occurred between them, because if Mickey did like him there was no way he would have invited Ian to the showers with him.

 

Not that he'd really invited Ian to the showers, he'd just asked if Ian were coming since he knew Ian needed one. But now that the thought was in Ian's mind he couldn't stop imagining what would have happened if Mickey had been under the spray of water—completely naked and hard and with that fucking smirk on his face—when he'd said "coming, Gallagher?" instead of in the hallway.

 

Fuck. There was no way Ian would be able to not jerk off right now. But he could do it quietly... yes, he'd spent enough years living in a roommate to know how to do it quietly.

 

When Ian finally allowed his slender fingers to wrap around his dick, he let out a sigh that was lost in the sound of the water beating down around them. It was a good cover for the noise as he continued to jerk himself, slow at first and then faster and faster, concentrating mostly on the head of his cock as he relaxed into it. One hand rubbed his balls gently, and he bit his tongue to prevent sound from escaping his mouth.

 

He thought about Mickey bending over for him right there in the shower so that Ian could see that neat little hole twitch as he got closer, and he imagined what that would look like, Mickey's total abandon. In his fantasy he was fingering Mickey slowly, carefully, jerking him slowly with his other hand until finally he was opened up far enough that Ian could get inside him.

 

His fantasy didn't get much farther than that before it was sending him over the edge. With a loud gasp he came, white ribbons coating his hands, and his entire body convulsed in the best orgasm he'd had in a while.

 

As soon as the haze faded away and Ian could think straight again, he began to worry about how loud he'd been. It was easy for him to be quiet when he needed to be, but if there was one time he shouldn't be making even one sound, it was now. He waited a few seconds, listening intently over the shower spray, to see if Mickey was going to say anything. If he asked about the noise, Ian could say he slipped and it made him gasp—yes, that was a good excuse

 

Ian couldn't hear anything, though; there was only silence and water around them. He was about to put his face back under the showerhead when something did catch his attention: a small, soft sigh came from Mickey's shower stall.

 

Before he could help it, Ian's mouth dropped open in shock. There was no way Mickey was jerking off, too. It was impossible. If Ian was afraid to masturbate near Mickey, then Mickey, master of squashing his feelings and internalized homophobia, certainly wouldn't.

 

Right?

 

There was another sigh from Mickey's stall, this one slightly louder, and then only the sound of water. A few moment later, the pop of a shampoo bottle being opened.

 

It occurred to Ian that he would never actually know what Mickey had or hadn't been doing just now. For all he knew, Mickey was the one who had accidentally fallen and gasped in surprise... twice.

 

It was altogether infuriating and sexy. Ian would really like a clue as to what the fuck was going on between them, and if his attraction was one-sided. Then again, he would also really like to not get punched in the face for hitting on Mickey, so that was where the issue lay.

 

The faucet of Mickey's shower shut off, and Ian was relieved when he heard the other boy gather his things and head back to the room. The last thing he needed was to see Mickey in a towel right now.

 

He gave it a few minutes before he was sure Mickey would have changed into his pajamas, and then he headed to the room after him.

 

When he got there Mickey was sprawled out on his bed staring at the ceiling, and neither of them said anything at all.


	5. Unexpected Naps

Ian was used to being told what to do. It came with the boarding school territory. He was used to the wifi getting turned off at eight every night, a meeting with a chiding administrator if he skipped a meal, and adhering to every annoying rule unless he wanted an even more annoying punishment.

 

Mickey was used to doing whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever the fuck he wanted to do it. That was why it wasn’t really surprising when, four days in a row, Mickey didn’t get back to their room until after 5 P.M., long after school had ended and even after Ian had returned from hanging out with Lip.

 

“Where were you?” Ian asked from where he lay on his bed, as Mickey stomped into the room and shut the door behind him.

 

“De-fucking-tention,” Mickey mumbled. Ian watched with amusement as he threw his books onto the floor.

 

“You actually brought your books to class today,” Ian said, fighting to keep the smirk off his face. Mickey looked furious, and it made Ian want to kiss him all over.

 

“No!” Mickey said, flailing his arms as he spoke animatedly. “No, I fucking didn’t! They fuckin’ gave me new ones. I showed up to detention and the fucking dean is there, and she’s talking about how much she wants me to succeed,” Mickey spits the word. “She asked me why my grades are so shitty and I told her to fuck off.”

 

Ian tried to imagine the expression that must have been on Dean Minster’s face when he said that, but he couldn’t. There was no way she’d heard that from a student before, ever.

 

“You fuckin’ smirkin’ over there, Gallagher?” Mickey asked, but the aggression had left his voice.

 

“It’s just… funny,” Ian said honestly, and he couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Jesus Christ, Mickey.”

 

“Ay, fuck off,” Mickey said with no heat. His eyes were starting to twinkle. “That’s why I had detention all week. They lectured me for fuckin’ ever and then gave me these textbooks,” he motioned to the pile he’d unceremoniously thrown onto the floor, “saying how they hope I’ll reach my full potential now. The fuck do they know about my full potential?  My full fuckin’ potential was making a buck a day selling coke on the street.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and out of habit they both automatically moved toward the window.

 

They spent a few minutes in comfortable silence, breathing smoke out the window in an even pattern. Their eyes met for a long moment until Mickey coughed and looked away.

 

“You think they’ll expel you?” Ian asked, eyes trained to car on the street below in an effort to keep them from locking with Mickey’s again.

 

“Nah,” Mickey said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “They would’ve done it already. You’re stuck with me, Gallagher.”

 

“Lucky me,” Ian murmured. Their eyes met again, and where they were situated, both hanging out the window to keep the smoke from entering the room, left little space between them. The first time they stared at each other could have been a fluke. The second time, with that electricity between them and their breath caught in their throats, Ian thought they were going to kiss.

 

They didn’t. Mickey flung his half-smoked cigarette out the window and disappeared back into the room.

 

Ian let out an involuntary sigh. He needed this cigarette, considering the stress of his everyday living arrangement. Mickey continued to talk to him even as Ian leaned out the window.

 

“If I was South Side right now I wouldn’t even be in school.”

 

“You say that a lot, but you’re still here.”

 

“It ain’t for the schooling,” Mickey muttered.

 

Ian glanced back at where he was sprawled on his bed. “Then why are you?”

 

Mickey didn’t answer.

 

“Mickey?” Ian prodded.

 

“What, you wanna have a fuckin’ sleepover, Gallagher? Share all our fuckin’ secrets and read our fuckin’ horoscopes and shit?”

 

Ian said, “Not really.”

 

There wasn’t much to do after that. He finished his cigarette in silence.

 

******

 

Ian didn't get much sleep that night, and he awoke the next morning with heavy eyes. He'd been on medication for a while now, and while he was lucky that it had helped his moods, it also tended to make him sleepy. He'd starting taking it at night in order to quell those side-effects, but every once in a while he still sagged throughout the day, exhausted for no real reason.

 

Today, in a change of roles for once, Mickey was the one telling Ian he'd better get up and go to breakfast if he didn't want to get in trouble. Mickey had actually said that—"Time to get up, princess, or the dean's gonna have your ass"—and it was so unusual to have Mickey warning him of trouble that Ian actually did get out of bed.

 

He got ready for class quickly and followed Mickey to the dining hall in a haze of sleepiness. They sat at what had become their usual table, where Lip and Mandy sat as well, and Ian all but collapsed into the bench.

 

"Rough night?" Mickey said sarcastically, because he knew Ian had gone to bed at a decent hour.

 

"Rough morning," Ian corrected. He didn't reach for any of the food spread out on the table, and instead filled a mug with coffee. Mickey stacked his plate high with food and relaxed next to him on the bench.

 

The dining hall was never quiet, but in the mornings when everyone was still waking up it tended to stay at a delicate hush. It was perfectly quiet, and Ian could feel his body sag. Heavy eyelids obscured Ian's vision as he gazed into his mug. Across the table a student hummed a soft song that made his eyes droop...

 

Everything smelled good, like clean linens and cigarettes, and it engulfed Ian. He knew that scent. He must be sitting in his dorm room, on Mickey's bed, lying on his pillow and taking in the scent of his hair. He could sleep forever here, it was so perfect... he could stay here and take in the scent of Mickey and the quiet sounds around him... all he needed was for Mickey to come... but the air smelled like him. He should be here soon...

 

"Looks like someone had a wild night." Mandy's loud voice came across the table and startled Ian awake. He wasn't in Mickey's bed, he was in the dining hall, and his head—he turned to the side and found his face in Mickey's sleeve. It took Ian a moment to realize his head lay against Mickey's shoulder.

 

As soon as he did realize this he scrambled away, desperate to extract himself before Mickey could call him gay for it.

 

"Have a nice nap?" Lip asked cheekily.

 

Ian frowned. "Didn't realize I was falling asleep..." He yawned and looked at Mickey. "Was I out for a while?"

 

"About ten minutes," Lip supplied.

 

Mickey didn't say anything. His eyes avoided Ian's.

 

"Mickey here was a nice little pillow for you," Lip added unhelpfully. Mandy rolled her eyes.

 

Ian blinked down at Mickey. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

 

Mickey bit the side of his lip. "You seemed tired."

 

"Oh," Ian said. "Thanks."

 

"Yeah, no problem," Mickey said.

 

Ian wasn't really sure what to do now, because his heart was beating sporadically, and he was pretty sure he'd just cracked through every outer layer of Mickey at once and gotten straight to the part where he didn't mind being a pillow. He sipped his coffee. Beside him, Mickey looked similarly out of sorts.

 

Heavy eyes drooped once more, and before Ian could stop himself, he was falling asleep at the table again. This time he only narrowly managed to wake at the sudden falling motion before his head landed in a bowl of cereal.

 

Ian sighed. "Would you mind if—"

 

"Go ahead." Mickey murmured quietly, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear, and he stuck out his shoulder for Ian to lean on.

 

"Thanks, Mick," Ian said dreamily as he fell asleep again, that wonderful smell all around him. "You're... best roommate..."

 

Lip might have laughed at that, but Ian wouldn't know; seconds after placing his head onto that muscular shoulder, he was asleep. 

 


	6. Frustrations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which both boys are... pretty juvenile, really.

Thanks to his early-morning nap, by the time breakfast was over Ian was awake enough to make it through his classes for the day. He did have a special pass to get out of class in case he ever had an episode or was too depressed to leave his room, but he'd never needed to use it. Today Mickey's shoulder had worked as a better remedy to Ian's rough morning than just about anything else he could think of. Mickey could probably mend Ian’s bones just by touching them to his shoulder. It was that kind of magical.

 

They had a day of notes first period, which meant they were mostly writing and Ian was mostly paying attention. He was continuously distracted by Mickey's pen, which kept finding it's way into Mickey's mouth in a way that made Ian very, very jealous.

 

It was a relief that Ian didn't have to worry about Mickey coming into their room after school now, because Ian knew first period that he needed to jerk off as soon as he got back to his dorm. It was too much to watch Mickey suck on and bite the end of his pen as if he had a fucking oral fixation—Ian needed an escape from his sexual frustration. He was actually lucky that Mickey had detention that afternoon: Ian would have the room all to himself.

 

He'd been happily anticipating it all day, so that afternoon he'd barely closed the door to his dorm before his pants were unzipped and pushed down his thighs. Ian collapsed into his bed with a happy sigh, grabbed some lotion from the drawer beside his bed, and wrapped a hand around his dick.

 

God, he'd been looking forward to this.

 

Ian thought back to Mickey's lips around his pen and imagined it was his mouth around Ian's dick instead, with Mickey on his knees in front of Ian, hungrily sucking away. He slid his thumb over the head of his dick and imagined it was Mickey's tongue licking his slit, Mickey's throat swallowing his precum. God, if only Mickey were here to do it himself so he could look up at Ian, mouth still around his cock, and Ian could be engulfed in the warm blue of his eyes.

 

Ian's left hand came up to massage his balls as his other hand tugged faster and harder. He was so close—so ready to come down Mickey's throat—

 

"Hey, Gallagher, guess who got out of deten—" Mickey stopped dead halfway through the door, shocked eyes wide and glued to where Ian's fist was wrapped around his cock. "Oh, fuck!"

 

"Oh, shit," Ian said desperately. No matter how fast he scrambled to make it look like this wasn't exactly what it was, it was too late. The damage was done.

 

Ian wasn't sure if he should have the Earth swallow him up in his embarrassment or keep going just to see how Mickey would respond.

 

It was very likely that response would be Mickey throwing Ian out the window, which was why Ian quickly pulled his pants up and sat up so he could bury his face in his arms.

 

"What the fuck, Gallagher?" Mickey demanded. He'd turned to face the wall after he got over his initial shock, and he was still standing with his back to Ian. "We've been out of class for, what, ten minutes?"

 

"I thought you had detention!" Ian said loudly, unafraid to look at Mickey now that the other boy wasn't facing him and therefore couldn't see the bright red color of his face.

 

Mickey ignored him. "Next time send a fucking warning text. 'Hey Mickey, I'm tugging one out in the room, steer clear for half an hour.' Communication, Gallagher!"

 

"You weren't supposed to be here!"

 

"Fuck," Mickey said, and he finally moved away from the wall. It occurred to Ian that it was strange for him to face away for so long. It had been minutes since Ian had pulled his pants back up and sat on his bed, but Mickey was completely turned toward the wall. Ian had a flash of that night weeks ago when Mickey had gotten hard when they wrestled, and with a twist of his stomach he wondered if Mickey wouldn’t turn the front of his body towards him today for the same reason.

 

But... no, that couldn't be it. This was too much of a fucking embarrassing situation for both of them.

 

"Look, this sort of thing happens a lot at boarding schools," Ian said, in an attempt to reassure both of them that there was nothing weird about what had just happened, even though there definitely was. "It's one of the many thrills of living on a floor with ten other dudes."

 

And even though it was true—in fact, Ian had walked in on his roommate jerking off last year, and while it had been weird, it hadn't been so cripplingly awkward—Ian couldn't help but feel like this was different. Maybe it was the way Mickey's eyes had lingered on his dick, or the way he'd faced away from Ian for so longer afterwards, but either way, Ian was going to go crazy if they didn't fucking settle the sexual tension between them. Soon.

 

Finally Mickey turned to him. They stared at each other, equally embarrassed.

 

After a long, awkward moment, Ian repeated, "It's not a big deal."

 

"Yeah, whatever, Gallagher," Mickey said, malice underlying his tone."But I'm not fucking gay, okay? I don't want to see any more dicks. Keep that fuckin' thing in your pants, Firecrotch."

 

"Oh, fuck off," Ian muttered. "You're fucking jealous."

 

"Of what, your anaconda? I'm surprised people ain't running away from that thing."

 

Ian snorted and laughed, caught off guard by the comment. The backhanded compliment, really. If Mickey had seen enough of his dick to gawk at how big it was, Ian supposed there was no point pretending that this hadn't actually happened. "I've never had any complaints."

 

"It ain't the size of the boat, man, it's the motion of the fuckin' thing."

 

"Is that what people say to you?"

 

Mickey flipped him off. "No more dick-talk. This is too fuckin' weird. We're acting like a couple of fags."

 

Ian's jaw clenched. He hated when Mickey used that word; maybe it was different on the South Side, but where Ian came from it was strikingly offensive. He barely thought about what he was going to say before the words came out of his mouth. "Man, I am a fucking fag."

 

The air in the room turned stagnant, as if they had both stopped breathing. Mickey looked paler than usual.

 

"Don't say that shit to me," he said.

 

"Yeah?" Ian asked, entire body tense. "Why not?"

 

"Because I don't wanna fucking hear that shit."

 

"Why don't you want to hear it, Mickey?" Ian pushed. "You scared you feel the same way?"

 

Mickey was across the room and in his face before Ian could blink. His fist connected with Ian's jaw just as quickly; Ian was lucky his reflexes were good, or he would have been hit with more than a grazing of knuckles.

 

"Fuck you," Ian whispered, because he didn't know what else to say. Some small, stupid part of him thought Mickey might be accepting of his confession—might even have a confession of his own to make.

 

Instead both boys stood inches apart in the middle of the room, the tension in the air so thick it was almost tangible.

 

Mickey didn't say anything.

 

"Fuck you," Ian repeated, louder this time, the words flying out of his mouth like venom. He didn't wait for Mickey to respond; he grabbed his pajamas off the bed and stormed out of the room.

 

He decided he would sleep in Lip's room that night. Mandy was probably over, but Ian didn't care. Anything was better than rooming with Mickey right now.

 

When he arrived at Lip's room his hypothesis was realized: Mandy was lying on Lip's bed, somehow snuck in through the window. Lip's roommate, as usual, was on the other side of the room largely ignoring them.

 

"'Sup, Ian?" Lip asked when Ian sat on the edge of his bed.

 

"Mickey's being an asshole. Can I sleep in here?"

 

"Yeah," Lip said. "I'm surprised it's taken this long."

 

Mandy scoffed her agreed. “Mickey can be a real piece of shit. What’d he do this time?”

 

Ian bit his lip; he wasn’t sure if he should explain what had happened. Mandy was from the same household Mickey was from—if he was homophobic, she probably was as well. Though, Ian reasoned, if she was, it would be better for Lip if they knew about it now. Lip would never stay with someone like that, especially not after finding out about Ian’s sexuality a few months earlier.

 

Ian decided to tell them, if only to judge Mandy on her reaction. “He was being a homophobic prick.”

 

Mandy rolled her eyes. “Sounds like him.”

 

“Sounds like a fucking asshole,” Lip added. He was looking at Ian was narrowed eyes and a flabbergasted expression. He mouthed, Mickey? You’ve got to be kidding me, and Ian blushed. Trust Lip to put the pieces together before he even had all of them.

 

Mandy whipped out her crappy phone to text Mickey something—more precisely, to text him “U R AN ASSHOLE,” and while she was staring at her phone, Lip stared at Ian.

 

Ian gave his most intense sad puppy expression, and Lip looked annoyed.

 

And he was entitled to be angry, really. He’d known about Ian’s terrible taste in men since he found about about his brief affair with his married-with-two-children Chemistry teacher the year before; from the look on his face, he didn’t consider Mickey much of a step up.

 

Mandy’s phone buzzed with a new message, and she snorted when she read it.

 

“Mickey says, ‘no shit,’” she informed them. “How about you just move in here, Ian?”

 

“Can’t if you already are,” Ian pointed out, and she laughed.

 

“All right, all right,” Lip said, “everyone relax. There’s a way all three of us can fit on the bed…”

 

Yeah, Ian decided he was going to stay here for a while. A cramped bed was better than having to deal with Mickey’s shit.

 


	7. Tensions and Invitations

Breakfast was awkward the next morning, mainly because neither Ian nor Mickey had a place to sit besides their regular seats next to each other. The meal passed with an unspoken tension between them, a heavy cloud that clung to them and followed them to math class.

 

It was uncomfortable. Ian eagerly awaited the end of the period, and was more thankful now than ever that he didn’t have any other classes with Mickey.

 

There was nothing that could save him from having to go back to their dorm room later on, though. He’d already gone one day without his books and class supplies; he would need to get those out if he was going to stay in Lip’s room (and he would figure out how to get through the school’s shitty security system later—usually the teachers who acted as resident assistants were lenient for one night, but if Ian tried to stay in Lip’s room again, they would definitely have something to say. Luckily they could easily be persuaded with money, and Ian had plenty of that).

 

With the hope that Mickey would be at detention, or in the dean’s office getting yelled at, or beating some kid up in the park across the street, Ian went to his room right after school.

 

Because he wasn’t lucky in the slightest way, Mickey was lying on his bed playing with a pocket knife when Ian entered the room.

 

Their eyes made contact for a long second before Ian looked away angrily. He could feel his face getting red and willed it to stop.

 

“Hey,” Mickey said, voice softer than usual.

 

Ian was surprised at being spoken to, but he tried not to show it. Instead he turned his back to Mickey, grabbed his backpack, and began loading the things he needed for class into it.

 

“So, uh,” Mickey said awkwardly, “what’s up, Gallagher?”

 

“What’s up?” Ian repeated, incredulous. He whirled around to watch where Mickey was avoiding his gaze on the bed. “What’s up, seriously?”

 

“They don’t say that where you come from, or somethin’?” Mickey said sarcastically, and Ian could practically feel the other boy’s hackles going up. “What’s up—it’s like, how’s it going?”

 

“I’m fucking fine, Mickey,” Ian said. “Fucking great. Just taking the things I need for class tomorrow because I’m staying with Lip instead of my homophobic roommate.”

 

Mickey sighed. “Look, man, I’m not homophobic—” Ian laughed bitterly. “That’s how we talk, where I come from! We say shit like fag and no one gets offended.”

 

“Yeah? You punch people for being gay and they don’t get offended about that, either?”

 

Mickey bit his lip. He still wouldn’t make eye contact with Ian. “I was just a little surprised, that’s all.”

 

“That’s really not my problem,” Ian said, and he turned to go.

 

Mickey frowned. “No, don’t.”

 

“Don’t leave?” Ian guessed.

 

“Just, don’t.” Mickey looked at a loss for what to say.

 

“Whatever,” Ian said. “See you in geometry.”

 

He left the room, but he lingered at the door for a few moments after he shut it, and he could have sworn he heard the thud of a knife going into awall.

 

Ian went back to Lip’s room feeling conflicted. It was strange how Mickey had reached out to him, almost as if Mickey felt remorse for what had happened the night before. Though an apology would have been nicer than an attempt at awkward conversation, Ian thought. Not that he expected an apology from Mickey—not in a million years.

 

After the cramped sleeping from the night before, Mandy had decided to stay in her own room tonight, which meant that not only did Ian get a lot more foot space on the bed, he also got to deal with Lip badgering him about what was happening with Mickey. His roommate was napping with headphones on, which was nice—privacy was so rare at boarding school that it was a pleasant surprise when it actually happened.

 

“Well?” He said expectantly.

 

Ian sighed. Seemingly all in one breath he said, “We got into a fight a while back and he wound up pinning me to the floor, and I could tell he had a woodie from it, but then he said all this stuff about how it never happened, and we never talked about it again. Obviously I never said anything, and he always talked about having sex with women, and used the word fag, so I thought maybe he really wasn’t gay. But there’s so much weird fucking sexual tension between us, and one time he caught me jerking off and fucking stared at my dick. Last night I said I’m gay, and he tried to punch me, but now today he was making conversation like he feels bad, or something.”

 

“Holy shit,” Lip said.

 

“Yeah.”

 

They were silent for a moment.

 

“Ever heard of internalized homophobia?” Lip asked. Ian shook his head. “It’s when someone who’s gay hears so many bad things about gay people they start to think there’s something wrong with them.”

 

Ian rubbed his eyes. He needed a cigarette.

 

“Seems like Mickey has a major case,” Lip said unnecessarily.

 

“Maybe,” Ian said dejectedly. “Maybe we just come from two different places. He says no one on the South Side gets offended over the word fag.”

 

“That doesn’t make this your fault.”

 

“I know,” Ian said, though he didn’t. Perhaps he was blowing this out of proportion. If Mickey didn’t want to talk about possibly being gay, well, Ian couldn’t do anything about it. He ought to find someone else in the meantime and hope that by the end of the year, Mickey would come around. Or come out, as the case may be.

 

"You know you can stay here for as long as you want," Lip told him. "No need to stay with a repressed, homophobic roommate."

 

"Thanks," Ian said quietly. His brother, at least, would always be there for him. When Ian felt crushed by the weight of what made him different, that fact was always a beacon of light.

 

"Wanna sneak out and get Chinese food?"

 

Ian grinned. "You already know the answer to that.”

 

******

Ian would be lying if he said he wasn't dreading the next morning, because he was sure Mickey must be even more angry with him after he'd snubbed him the night before. For that reason he had Lip tell the teachers on duty that he was ill so he could skip breakfast. That, at least, was half an hour less time today that would be dedicated to awkward time with Mickey.

 

He couldn’t skip geometry, because there was a test the next day he needed to review for, so he trudged to the classroom and prepared himself to deflect any and all sneered comments he might face.

 

Ian was more than ready to get into a fight in the middle of class.

 

Mickey hadn't seemed to have gotten the memo that they were supposed have planned on beating each other up.

 

For the first time all year Mickey was in class before the bell rang—and before Ian, for that matter. When Ian arrived, he was nervously tapping his fingers on the desk.

 

"Gallagher," he greeted when their eyes met.

 

Ian ignored him.

 

"Listen," Micky began. Sharp teeth worried his bottom lip. "You should come back to the room today after school."

 

"No need," Ian informed him. "I have all my stuff for class."

 

"Come by anyway. I have something for you."

 

"You don’t get to tell me what to do," Ian said defensively. "And you have what, a shiv? No, thanks. If you want to fight it out we can do it right here, right now."

 

Mickey blinked at him in surprise. "You escalated that pretty quickly, Gallagher. I’m not trying to start anything. And..." He frowned. "It's not a shiv. Come by later and find out what it is or don't, I don't care."

 

He must have cared or he wouldn't have asked, but Ian decided not to mention that. A small amount of guilt weighed Ian down; he shouldn’t have accused Mickey of having a shiv. They had been friends for three months before their recent fight, and perhaps Ian shouldn’t write him off so quickly.

 

Ian opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment the teacher came into class and called for silence. He wasn't sure what he would have said, anyway.

 

He was too busy trying to quell the part of him that was hoping Mickey was trying to make up for what had happened to think coherently about much else. A desperate part of him was hoping they would overcome this and go back to being friends who went to the gym and watched bad television together.

 

Against his better judgement, Ian decided he would go to his dorm after school. In the end he was far too curious about what Mickey had for him, and too eager to renew their friendship, to stay away. He made up his mind, unlocked his room, and cautiously opened the door.

 

Mickey wasn't in the room yet, so Ian sat on his bed and waited. After a few minutes of sitting patiently, Ian got up to search through his possessions. Everything was there, it seemed, which meant Mickey hadn't sold any of his belongings on the black market. That was a good sign.

 

A wave of guilt flooded Ian as he stood staring at his laptop. It wasn't fair for him to have even wondered if Mickey had stolen all his things. Just because he was from the South Side didn't mean he was a terrible person. Ian shouldn't keep assuming the worst of him (which, Ian realized, he was doing). So maybe he was being classist, or whatever Debbie was always going on about in her (decidedly well-placed) concerns for social justice. Maybe it was time for him to try to see things from Mickey's point of view.

 

Ian didn't really understand why Mickey did the things he did, but if what Lip had said was true and it was some form of internalized homophobia, that was sad. Ian had never had to fear for his well-being or panic about his family accepting him, because they weren't perfect but they were his family, and that meant they loved him no matter what.

 

But Mandy hadn't even seemed to know that Mickey was gay. She'd said it was normal for him to make homophobic comments, but nothing more. Which meant either he wasn't actually gay (which would be really shitty, Ian thought), or he hadn't told his sister. And if he hadn't told his sister, there must be a reason...

 

Ian wasn't great at investigative work; that had always been Lip's forte. Perhaps he should make a List of Confusing and/or Stupid Things Mickey Milkovich Has Done and bring it downstairs for Lip to see, in the hopes that his brother could figure out what Ian couldn't.

 

This was just beginning to seem like a viable option when the door opened and Mickey walked into the room.

 

He threw his backpack down on the floor, eyes never leaving his side of the room, as if he didn't actually expect anyone else to be here with him.

 

"Hi, Mickey," Ian said, and he tried to keep all curiosity out of his voice. He didn't think Mickey would like it very much if he knew Ian had been sitting here attempting to analyze him.

 

Mickey turned quickly and stared into Ian's face, mouth open in surprise, as if he really didn't think Ian would show.

 

Ian, for his part, really wished this could be less awkward. He sat back down on his bed.

 

"Gallagher," Mickey greeted, blank going carefully blank as he gained his composure. "You showed."

 

"Yeah, well," Ian scuffed his shoes against the floor. "Ain't got nothing better to do."

 

Mickey walked over to dresser and opened the first drawer. He pulled out a shoebox and handed it over to Ian.

 

"Um, thanks, Mickey, but I can buy my own shoes."

 

"No shit, Gallagher. Open the box."

 

Ian did. Inside was a small collection of items—Mickey's phone, a small stack of dollars, an expensive-looking ring—that Mickey seemed to be keeping safe.

 

On top of the pile was a pair of tickets, and Mickey carefully chewed his lip when Ian lifted them out of the box.

 

"These?" Ian asked Mickey nodded.

 

Ian held them up to his face to examine them closer. Two tickets for Unified Knife the next weekend.

 

"Holy shit, that's awesome," Ian said honestly. "Who are you taking?"

 

Mickey stared at him. "You joking?"

 

And that's when Ian registered what was happening, because Mickey had said he had something for him, and now he was showing them these tickets, and there were two, and Ian was very stupid for not realizing this right away.

 

"Yeah, joking," Ian lied, laughing at his own stupidity. "So this is, what, a peace treaty?"

 

Mickey smirked. "Basically. Anyway, I want my roommate back, because someone's gotta do my English homework before they expel me."

 

Ian couldn’t help it; he grinned. The relief that filled him upon realizing he and Mickey could still be friends was greater than he’d expected it to be.

 

“So you wanna go?” Mickey asked, the picture of nonchalance.

 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Ian said excitedly. “I’ve never been to a concert before.”

 

Mickey stared at him in disbelief. “No way. You’ve never been to a concert before?”

 

Ian shook his head. “Nope.”

 

“Aw, man, you’re missin’ out,” Mickey said as he took a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket.

 

“Not anymore,” Ian said, fighting to get the smile off his face and losing.

 

“Mm,” Mickey grunted. He looked away. “Just keep your schedule open next Friday. And help me with this English project shit I gotta do."

 

For once Ian didn't even put up a fight, because who was he kidding? Of course he would do Mickey's homework. He would probably do anything for Mickey, which, he told himself, was nothing more than a testament to their great friendship.

 

Ian had never had a friendship before where he'd cared enough to make up with the other person. That was something he'd always done with Lip and Fiona, but never had he cared about someone outside his family enough to bother being nice to them even when he was annoyed, or get over his anger after the other person pissed him off.

 

And Mickey had really pissed him off. But now... Ian didn't want to be angry anymore, and he didn't want Mickey to be mad at him, either.

 

So this, Ian decided, was kind of a big deal. The fact that he forgave Mickey for their fight. The fact that he was now willing to do something for him, like his homework.

 

The fact that Mickey had bought them concert tickets for a band he knew Ian liked, because not only did Mickey want to spend time with Ian outside of school, but he paid attention to what Ian liked.

 

Ian was trying to keep the smile off his face, he really was. It wasn't his fault his lips didn't seem to want to go back down.

 

If he wasn't on a steady diet of his medication, Ian might have worried that the elation he was feeling was because of the chemicals in his brain. He still struggled to sort out sometimes whether the emotions he felt were actually his or the results of his bipolar disorder—but he knew when he looked at Mickey's face that the happiness he felt was fully his own.

 

And unlike when he was in his manic phase, the warmth in his stomach and the happiness in his heart didn't make him feel like he might fly away or explode at any moment. Instead it made him feel whole, and like he wanted to walk across the room and kiss Mickey on the lips.

 

Except he couldn't do that. He didn't even know for sure that Mickey was into boys.

 

But he hoped.

 

"All right, fine," Ian said. "What's this English project about?"

 

Mickey grinned.

 


	8. Telephone Conversations

Ian spent the next few days flying high, too thrilled about Mickey’s concert invitation to think about much else.

 

Not that it was big news, Ian had to remind himself, for what was probably the sixteenth time that day. They were two friends going to a concert. Friends went to concerts all the time.

 

But that didn’t mean Ian had an inexplicably strong bubble of hope that this would let them turn into something more.

 

When the school day ended, Ian sought time alone. He wanted to think about this, and what it meant, so he braced the bitter December cold to go for a walk around the city.

 

As soon as he left the campus, his phone rang. Assuming it was Lip asking why they couldn’t meet up at the park, he prepared to ignore it—but then he saw the caller ID and answered eagerly.

 

“Fiona!” he answered happily.

 

“Ian?” Fiona’s voice came over the line.

 

“Hey,” Ian replied with a smile she couldn’t see. It was so good to hear her voice.

 

“Hey, little bro. What’s up?”

 

“Uh, nothing, really. I was about to go ditch Lip to go for a walk.”

 

Fiona laughed. “Nothing new, then. So how’s everything, how’s school? I feel like we haven’t talked in forever. You like your classes? Is your roommate okay?”

 

“The classes are fine, I guess,” Ian said.

 

“You better be studying hard,” Fiona warned, voice full of admonition. “We don’t need any more Gallaghers going on a bender and dropping out.”

 

“We’ve got a long way to go to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Ian said faux-seriously. “Lip and I should be okay, and Debbie, but I don’t know how Carl is going to survive at the Academy. Nothing for him to blow up. Nothing for him to even attempt to blow up.”

 

Fiona’s rough laugh sounded through the line again. “Hopefully I’ll have that kind sorted out by then. If not we’ll just have Frank send a big check with lots of zeros.”

 

Her words reminded Ian of something; perhaps Fiona could give him an outsider’s opinion about what was going on with him and Mickey.

 

“Hey, you wanna know something interesting?” Ian said, “My roommates from the South Side—he and his sister won a scholarship here, or something—and he’s pretty cool. Like, really cool. He got us concert tickets for next weekend.”

 

“Oh, yeah? What band?”

 

“Unified Knife.” The long silence informed Ian that Fiona didn’t know what he was talking about. “It’s that band I always play in our fitness room.”

 

“Is that what they’re called?” Fiona asked. “I always just assumed it was a recording of the homeless guys living down the street banging on their garbage can lids.”

 

Ian snorted. “Whatever. It’s gonna be fun.” He paused for a moment, stomach twisting in knots. “Listen, Fiona… what does it mean when a guy buys something like that for you? I mean, concert tickets or something.”

 

“If a guy bought concert tickets for me I’d assume he wanted to get in my pants,” Fiona informed him. “But I’m not as well-versed in the mating habits of the gay community. Has he been sending you signals?”

 

Ian thought of Mickey’s pants tented against him as they wrestled on the floor. “Kind of.”

 

“Maybe he’s interested. Maybe he’s just trying to be nice. Either way, Ian, I wouldn’t recommend starting something with your roommate. It could get tricky fast, and then you’ll have nowhere to go.”

 

“I could room with Lip,” Ian reminded her, purposefully leaving out the fact that he’d done that already, “Or go on a bender and be the second Gallagher to drop out.”

 

“That one isn’t an option,” Fiona said sternly. “Now go study your ass off or something. Make me proud.”

 

“Yeah, I should. I have an Economics test tomorrow. Hey, do you think if I get an A and tell Frank he’ll care this time?”

 

“Um, no, sweetie. I don’t even know where he is right now. But you know I’ll be proud of you.”

 

Ian smiled. “I know. Thanks, Fiona.”

 

“No problem,” she said. “I’ll talk to you soon, Ian.”

 

They hung up the phone, and Ian was left feeling much the same way he had before. He was still confused, still too hopeful for his own good. His stomach still filled with butterflies when he thought about how Mickey had gone out of his way to do something nice for him.

 

And he hadn’t just don’t it because he wanted Ian to do his homework, either, because it turned out he hadn’t even had an English project. He was just using that as an excuse to make his attempts to rebuild their friendship seem less heartfelt.

 

At this thought, Ian grinned. No, he didn’t know what he going on with him and Mickey. He didn’t know what would happen at the concert. But he had a feeling everything would crescendo soon.

*******

 

“Hey, man, what’s up? You’re bouncin’ off the walls.”

 

It was late, and they were both in their room splayed out on their respective beds. Ian’s laptop was in the center of the room, between them so they could both watch

 

“I’m excited,” Ian said.

 

“For what?”

 

Ian had thought it was self-explanatory: he was excited for the concert, which was two days away, and the time he’d get to spend with Mickey. Evidently, this was not at the front of Mickey’s mind, like it was in Ian’s.

 

He scrambled for something else, a different excuse to explain why he was in such a good mood.

 

“To watch Van Damme beat Seagal into the ground, that’s what,” he lied, sending a smirk Mickey’s way.

 

Mickey watched him with a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re out of your mind. Have you seen that fucking ponytail? It’s a powerful ponytail. Seagal could totally kick Van Damme’s ass.”

 

“No way, dude,” Ian said. “It’s Van ‘Double Impact’ Damme. Seagal doesn’t stand a chance.”

 

“You wanna put a bet on that, Gallagher?”

 

Ian smirked. “‘Course I do.”

 

They made the bet and watched the fight, cheering loudly whenever it seemed like their man would win. At the end of the night, the boys went from actively watching the show to not watching it at all; instead, they swapped stories of the fights they themselves had gotten into, Mickey’s list infinitely longer. In the end Mickey won the bet, but he didn’t take the money.

 

It wasn’t until after two in the morning that they fell asleep, and they both woke up exhausted.

 

“Oh, man,” Mickey muttered. “This is gonna be a rough day.”

 

“Mmm,” Ian agreed sleepily. They were in the dining hall, Mickey downing all the bacon in sight, Ian trying not to fall asleep.

 

Failing.

 

He woke up on Mickey’s shoulder after the other boy’s body jostled when he reached for a sausage.

 

“Oh, sorry, Mick,” Ian said in a groggy voice. “Don’t mean to keep doing that.”

 

Mickey didn’t say anything, but he also didn’t punch Ian in the face, which was a good sign.

 

“You know,” Lip said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you didn’t sit so close together, you wouldn’t have to worry about these accidents that keep happening.”

 

“Leave ‘em  alone, Lip,” Mandy said. “It’s fucking early.”

 

Lip just rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s fine,” Ian said to his brother. He knew Lip was just trying to stand up for him, and that, knowing about his homophobic outbursts, he thought Mickey might hurt him.

 

But right now Ian was more serene than he’d been in a while, and he didn’t want anything taking that away.

 

“You don’t mind, Mick, right?” Ian asked.

 

“Uh, I guess not,” Mickey said. He looked uncomfortable admitting it. Ian’s heart soared.

 

“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” Lip said. He stood up from the table. “I have a physics project I need to work on. See you guys later.”

 

When they said goodbye and he left the dining hall, Mandy turned to the two of them.

 

“I think it’s nice you’ve finally got a friend, Mickey,” She teased, smirking at him. “Try not to fuck this one up.”

 

Mickey gave her the finger. “FUCK-U-UP,” his knuckles warned, but Mandy didn’t seem concerned.

 

“You’ve barely gotten into a fight since we got here,” she informed him. “You don’t scare me.”

 

“I could change that easily,” Mickey said.

 

“Yeah, but you won’t. Dad’s not here to push violence down your throat.” Her tone was serious now; she meant what she was saying. “I was hoping this would happen, Mickey. You’re happier away from him.”

 

“I’d be happier if you’d shut the fuck up.”

 

Mandy snorted. “Someday you’ll thank me for filling out that application and getting us in here.”

 

“Not likely,” Mickey said, but there was an underlying tone in his voice, something Ian couldn’t place. It sounded almost self-deprecating, like he was saying the words just because he thought he was supposed to.

 

“It’s not that bad, Mick,” Ian said.

 

The bell rang, signaling the transition from breakfast to first period.

 

“Whatever. Just no fallin’ asleep on me in class, okay?”

 

Ian grinned. “Yeah, sure.” He’d already had one nap, after all.

 


	9. Crossfaded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Crossfaded (n.): The act of being intoxicated by a combination of substances at the same time, most commonly marijuana and alcohol._

The day of the concert, Ian awoke with butterflies in his stomach. He didn’t even bother to feel ridiculous about it, and this time when Mickey asked what had him so happy, Ian told him the truth.

  


“Didn’t realize it would mean this much to you, Gallagher,” Mickey said, looking uncomfortable.

  


He didn’t like to talk about feelings, Ian knew that. Actually, he was starting to appreciate the way Mickey got flustered when Ian talked excitedly about their time together—whether it was about their upcoming non-date or past memories. All Ian had to do was say, “those comics you drew this morning about Ms. Zenger were hilarious,” and Mickey became an awkward, mumbling mess.

  


It was Ian’s new favorite thing to do.

  


They left for the concert around six, because it was an eight o’clock show and they wanted a good standing place near the front. They look the L downtown, all the while Mickey telling Ian about the last time he’d seen the band live. Apparently, they hadn’t been great.

  


“Then why buy tickets again?” Ian asked.

  


Mickey ran a hand through his hair. “I’m hoping they’ll be better this time.”

  


They did get a good place in the crowd, one row back from the front, and even Mickey was excited at that point. More people arrived, the crowd grew, and as the space in the venue shrunk, the two boys were forced closer and closer together.

  


Their shoulders touched, and Mickey pulled away too quickly. It solved the problem for a few minutes, until even more people arrived and they were shoved back together.

  


Just as Ian put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder to pull him closer and tell him maybe it would be best for them to move to the back of the crowd, a large man with a handlebar mustache winked at Ian and licked his lips. Unconsciously, Ian tightened his grip on Mickey’s shoulder; Mickey looked at him with furrowed eyebrows until he noticed the man standing next to Ian and staring him down.

  


“Hey, big boy,” Mickey said, cracking his knuckles to implicate a fight. “How ‘bout you keep your greasy eyes off my friend here.”

  


It wasn’t a question. The man looked back and forth between them for a moment before he gave a low chuckle. “Didn’t realize he was yours.” He sucked his teeth at Ian. “I do love me a twink, though. You give me a call if shortcake ever splits.”

  


“That all you think he is? A twink?” Mickey growled.

  


But the man didn’t say anything, just turned and made his way back through the crowd.

  


Ian met Mickey’s gaze. “Thanks.”

  


“No problem.” Mickey bit his lip. “Ian, do you—”

  


The crowd erupted in yells as the first band came onto the stage. Hundreds of cheers drowned out Mickey's voice.

  


"What?" Ian yelled over the noise, "What did you say?"

  


But Mickey just shook his head. Either he couldn't hear what Ian had said or the moment had passed and he no longer wanted to finish the question.

  


The first chord was strung and the crowd erupted even louder than before. It was unlike anything Ian had heard in his life; the thunderous instruments fighting to be heard over the roaring crowd as the audience convulsed with the rhythm of the music. A circle formed in the center of the dance floor, and Ian watched in awe as a few brave teenagers flung themselves into the midst of it, punching and kicking in every direction.

  


"What's happening?" Ian asked loudly.

  


"Mosh pit," Mickey explained. "It's fun 'til you get your teeth knocked in. You wanna join, Ian?"

  


Ian flexed away instinctively, and Mickey, who was watching him, laughed.

  


"You'll get used to it," he said. Ian wasn’t so sure about that. He wondered what Lip would say about him being in a place like this, cheap and grimy and the exact opposite of what they were used to. Without a doubt this was the least posh place Ian had ever been.

  


The pit intensified as more people joined in, causing the crowd to bunch closer together. Ian let Mickey fall into place in front of him, so that he, in his shortness, didn't miss what was happening on stage. The crowd contracted and released like a pair of lungs, and each time Ian's hips bumped against Mickey's backside his entire body filled with air.

  


When Ian imagined a concert, this hadn't been what he'd seen at all. He'd been expecting a giant venue with hundreds of seats, and instead he was standing in the front of a small room filled with enough people to break the fire code. He was repeatedly kicked in the face by crowd surfers, elbowed in the face by fans overflowing with enthusiasm, and covered in other people's sweat.

  


He fucking loved it.

  


Despite the uncomfortable fact he was forced to reconcile with, which was that his groin was pressed just above the ass of the person he most wanted to fuck, Ian felt like he belonged. The energy in the room was contagious. The population—unafraid of judgment, willing to risk broken bones for a chance to stagedive, more strung out more than not—was glorious. This was a culture Ian loved, one he'd never been able to partake in because of his upbringing; he wouldn't have even known places like this existed, let alone how easily they could fill him with excitement, if it hadn't been for Mickey.

  


They were practically dancing together; hips bumped and shoulders shook to the music, and Ian felt so alive he couldn't resist yelling along with the crowd. Mickey shot him a smirk, thrown so briefly over his shoulder Ian thought he might have misinterpreted it, except Mickey danced even harder after that, and Ian was left with no doubt in his mind that Mickey was _very_ proud of himself for doing Ian the honor of bringing him here.

  


Honestly, Ian concentrated more on the sweaty mop of black hair in front of him than the band on stage. For his part, Mickey didn't seem to notice the semi that was slowly but surely growing in Ian's pants.

  


Ian noticed, though, and he wasn't convinced it was because of the energy of the room. Just being around Mickey aroused him these days. Being crushed up against his ass in a crowd of thriving people was enough to give Ian shivers.

  


For once in his life, Ian lucked out: the band finished the final song in their set and left the stage; Mickey used the few seconds the crowd settled between the first and seconds bands to take a leak.

  


As soon as he was gone, Ian sighed with relief. The drummer from the second band was already walking onto the stage, sliding his drumsticks together in a way that wasn't lewd, not at all, but still made Ian think of the things he wanted to do to Mickey.

  


The slamming of a tambourine brought Ian back into the present. The second band came onto the stage one by one and prepared their instruments; each time one walked on stage, the crowd roared. Ian figured had another two minutes at most to get himself under control before the band started their set and Mickey came back. And, Ian told himself, he had to get under control, because he refused to be one of those creepy fuckers who ground his hard cock into the ass of unsuspecting standers-by. Even if the standerby in question was Mickey and there was literally not a single thing in the world that Ian would rather do.

  


The crowd jostled behind him as Mickey made his way back to through the room toward the stage. He appeared with four drinks, a beer and a plastic shot cup balanced precariously in each hand; he shoved one arm toward Ian, and Ian grabbed two drinks. Mickey cradled the two he still had and licked spilled liquid off his wrist.

  


Ian stared unabashedly as his pink tongue followed dripping liquid down his arm. Mickey was too busy to notice.

  


“How’d you get these?” Ian asked loudly. “Didn’t they card you?”

  


“Nah,” Mickey shouted back. “They didn’t card me. Mostly because I stole these off the counter when they weren’t looking.”

  


Ian guffawed, and Mickey smirked back, clearly happy to have surprised him.

  


“No one noticed?”

  


Mickey shrugged. “It’s pretty crowded by the bar. Drink up, man.”

  


They clinked plastic cups and exchanged wide grins.

  


On the count of three they took their shots at the same time.

  


“Aw, shit, I gotta get some more of these,” Mickey said. Ian nodded his agreement.

  


Getting drunk with his amazingly attractive, possibly-gay roommate was not on the top of Ian’s List of Good Ideas, but that didn’t stop him from chugging down as many beers and shots as Mickey could steal off the bar.

  


Anyway, his ability to reason was lessening with every drink he gulped down, and by the time he was on his third shot he’d all but forgotten why it would be bad for him to get shit-faced while standing so close to Mickey. This inability to reason doubled tenfold when, after Mickey prodded him roughly on the shoulder, Ian turned to face a fat blunt.

  


"We're in public!" Ian shouted, casting worried glances around them.

  


"No one cares here, dude," Mickey laughed. "This venue's run by some women from the South Side. They don't give a shit what we do."

  


He lit the joint and held it out; without another doubt, Ian took a hit.

  


"That's some good shit," he said appreciatively, passing it back.

  


"Yeah, man, I told you." Mickey grinned as if proud of himself. It made Ian want to ruffle his hair—which was weird, Ian decided. He should try to stay away from that.

  


The second band came and went without Ian paying much attention to them; he was concerned more with the way Mickey was dancing even more sensually than before; the alcohol loosened him up, and he was all but grinding against Ian by the time Unified Knife played their first song amid the cried of the audience.

  


_It’s only because he’s drunk_ , Ian thought, but he couldn’t remember why this mattered. If Mickey hadn’t been drunk, he wouldn’t be dancing against Ian. He wouldn’t keep insisting on more drinks until neither of them could stand up straight.

  


He wouldn’t, on the L-train ride home, kiss Ian on the mouth, with tongue and without inhibitions.

  


But he did, and it was fucking amazing.

  


They’d stumbled through the station, laughing as they tripped up the stairs, and when Mickey had gotten too close to the tracks, Ian had pulled him back. For a long moment Mickey just stared at him, dilated pupils gazing deeply into Ians face. The train had pulled up, but neither of them had moved until a homeless man—who smelled remarkably similar to Frank on his bad days—shoved past them. Ian had dragged Mickey onto the train behind the man, who had already walked into another segment of the L. It was late, and the place was empty; they were the only people in their cart.

  


Ian had looked at Mickey, who was still staring at him.

  


“‘Sup, Mick?” Ian had slurred.

  


Mickey responded by crashing his lips against Ian’s. There was no finesse to it, just unskilled drunken lips against each other, but Ian was in heaven. His cloudy mind could only concentrate on Mickey’s tongue curling around his own, and the tastes of cigarettes and liquor on his tongue. It was like all the kisses Ian had imagined but better, because Mickey was real this time, and he’d been the one to initiate it, and he was the one who continued to pull Ian closer as he slipped his hands around Ian’s waist.

  


They’d been so caught in their make-out session they’d missed their stop. Two stops later they finally realized it, and stumbled the remaining distance back to the Academy. Mickey, as if from habit, pulled a knife out of his pocket and let it hang unopened in his hand.

  


“Gonna stab somebody?” Ian asked with a heavy tongue.

  


“F’r protection,” Mickey mumbled. “Can’t be out this late without it. Fuckin’ gangs… muggers.”

  


It was all the explanation Ian needed. He tried to tell Mickey that in this part of the city, they should be fine without it—but Mickey insisted, and Ian didn’t want to argue with him. That might stall the kissing that he was hoping would come later.

  


They arrived past curfew at their dorm, but the teacher on the ground floor let them in on the grounds that it was the first time they’d arrived late. Either she hadn’t noticed their states of inebriation or she hadn’t cared.

  


Ian wasn’t aware of how long it took to stumble up to their room. The only thing on his mind was the kiss he and Mickey had shared on the train, and how desperately he needed it to happen again, now. Every moment away from Mickey’s mouth was like torture.

  


In the same second Ian shut the door of their room, he slammed Mickey up against it. This time when their lips met it was with a cracking of teeth. They kissed sloppily, tongues battling for dominance, each mouth aching for the other. Ian’s hands clenched in Mickey’s shirt and he pulled the fabric up until he could feel the flatness of his abs.

  


It was rough and intense and _wonderful_. After a while Mickey pushed Ian toward the bed, kissing him as they stumbled backwards.

  


“Fuck, Mick,” Ian exclaimed as he fell back onto his comforter and was immediately covered by Mickey’s body on his. An elbow hit Ian’s face, and he went from drunken giggling to a cry of pain. “Ouch, you—oh, god,” Ian pushed Mickey out of the way and ignored his annoyed yelp as he scrambled to the side of the bed.

  


“Migh’ throw up,” Ian admitted.

  


“Nah, man…” Mickey tried weakly to wrap his arms around Ian, to pull him back towards him, but Ian kept leaning over the side of the bed.

  


He stayed there for a long while, until the wave of nausea passed. It was better than vomiting on Mickey after their first make-out session.

  


When he turned back to the bed, Mickey was passed out on his pillow.

  


Ian snickered drunkenly and folded himself in next to him. Minutes later he fell asleep beside Mickey’s warm body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how much support you people are showering me with. It gives me life.
> 
> And finally, I do have [another Gallavich fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1666286), and for those of you waiting for the explicitly-rated parts in this one, it's basically a PWP, so it might scratch that itch ;)


	10. Aftershock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to clear something up based on a common I recently received. The audience should assume that in this universe Mickey is aware of Ian's disorder (considering how difficult it would be for him to miss the fact that Ian takes medication every day). That being said, I don't want anyone reading this expecting there to be a big reveal or an episode. Ian is on his medication, as mentioned several times in the fic, and that's all there is to it. I want to allow him to be more than his disorder. As someone with bipolar disorder, I don't often appreciate the pity constantly leveled at Ian, and I'm not willing to throw his mental well-being under the bus to add drama to the story. There are enough fics like that out there. I've always been more about snark and sexual tension than hurt/comfort, anyway.

The next morning came too soon, and was accompanied by a skull-splitting headache. Ian groaned as he cracked open his eyes, reaching out blindly for the bottle of aspirin on his side table, waving his hand around in a poor attempt to orient himself.

 

His hand hit something fleshy and human, and Ian gasped in surprise. He sat up, one hand to his aching head, the other still touching the boy next to him in bed.

 

Mickey was already scrambling to leave. He practically jumped over Ian in his effort to get away, and the way it made the bed quake sent a wave of nausea through Ian.

 

"Wait, Mick, come back," Ian said quickly, grabbing Mickey in a desperate attempt to get him to stay, but Mickey just shoved his hands off.

 

"Don't touch me," he hissed.

 

"I..." Ian said lamely, "I don't understand. Why are you..."

 

But the moment the words were out of his mouth, Ian realized what was happening. Mickey was running. He was running away from Ian, away from Ian's bed, and away from what they had done the night before.

 

"Mickey," Ian said quietly, voice thick in his attempt to quell the lump in the back of his throat. "You don't have to do this."

 

"I ain't doing nothing, Gallagher," Mickey said defensively.

 

They were back to Gallagher now. The comfort Mickey had felt when he'd called Ian by his first name was gone.

 

"You're running," Ian said, sounding a lot stronger than he felt. He wondered if he was going to throw up; if he did, he was sure it would have more to do with this conversation than the amount of alcohol he'd consumed the night before. "You're always running."

 

The other boy didn't respond.

 

"Mickey, you kissed me."

 

"I was drunk," Mickey said immediately. "I don't remember that."

 

Ian swallowed the lump in his throat and squared his shoulders. Gingerly, he stood up and took the bottle of aspirin off the table. The dry ache of them going down his throat without water was a relief. He could feel something other than his bleeding heart, then.

 

"Mickey, I like you," he said, not looking at the other boy. "And I think you like me, too.” Mickey opened his mouth as if to object, but Ian raised a hand to silence him. “Maybe I’m wrong. But if you do, when you're ready, you let me know."

 

Mickey didn't say anything.

 

With a shake of his head, Ian left the room.

 

Breakfast was later on Saturdays than during the week, which meant Ian had time to clean himself up and allow his stomachache to dissipate before he had to face Mickey again.

 

Actually, he was hoping Mickey would decide to skip breakfast—Ian would have, since he couldn’t stomach food yet anyway, but he didn't want to be berated for it, particularly since they'd already arrived after curfew the night before.

 

When he entered the dining hall and saw Mickey at their usual table, hair tussled and eyes sleepy, Ian cursed.

 

Fuck, he thought as he approached the table. He'd kissed that mouth. He'd touched those soft lips, had turned them red from friction.

 

And now he'd never get to do it again.

 

Ian didn't look at Mickey as he sat next to him at the table, though he did make an effort to push himself as far away as possible without touching the girl on the other side of him, one of Lip's friends from robotics who barely glanced at Ian or acknowledged his new closeness to her.

 

Invisible as usual, Ian thought. It wasn't helping with his mood.

 

"Bad night?" Lip asked when he saw Ian's face.

 

"How was the concert?" Mandy inquired.

 

"Fine," Ian muttered as he reached for the coffeepot.

 

"It was all right," Mickey said blandly. "Almost caught one of the drumsticks when the guy threw it, but I missed."

 

The lump in Ian's throat came back with a vengeance. "Thought you said you didn't remember last night."

 

"I don't," Mickey muttered.

 

"You just said—"

 

"Fuck you, Gallagher," Mickey exploded. "Maybe I remember, maybe I don't remember. It doesn't fucking matter. This doesn't change anything." At the last sentence he looked Ian dead in the eye, and the message was clear.

 

_The fact that I kissed you doesn't change anything._

_The fact that you kissed me back only makes it worse._

 

Without another word, Mickey rose and left the table. His shoes thundered away down the aisles of students with enough force to pause conversations and attract curious looks.

 

Ian was left to deal with the confused faces.

 

"You two get in a fight last night or something?" Mandy asked as she watched her brother leave the breakfast hall.

 

Ian rubbed a hand over his face. "Kind of."

 

Mandy shrugged. "Don't let it get to you. He's probably just mad about the drumstick."

 

"Yeah," Ian said. "Maybe."

 

*****

 

He spent the day in the park across from the school, half-heartedly doing his homework. Debbie called at one point, and he put on his best happy voice, but she could see right through it.

 

"Is it another Code Pink?" She worried, and Ian could practically see her brainstorming all ways she could help him.

 

She cared so much. He was lucky to have her.

 

"I'm okay, Debs," he said. "No Code Pink. Just code... dumb heart, I guess."

 

"Same here," Debbie said. "I met this guy, but he doesn't want to date me because because I'm too young. He said I'm not ready."

 

"Sounds like he's looking out for you. But I wouldn't take it too personally." Ian tried not to notice the parallels in their situations. It was incredibly painful, caring for someone who isn’t able to reciprocate yet. "He probably wishes you were ready. Probably wants it more than anything."

 

"Um, okay," Debbie said, voice crackling on the other end of the line. "You're being weird. Are you sure you don't want me to send Fiona over there?"

 

"Yeah, I'm sure, Debs. I think I'm going back to my dorm soon, anyway. Thanks, though."

 

They hung up, and Ian made his way back to his room. He thought of everything he could that didn't include Mickey—as it turned out, he'd had so few thoughts in that vein lately that it was nearly impossible to come up with something. In the end he stopped pretending he didn't care, and fell into the comfortable numbness of his injured heart.

 

He hadn't expected much would happen when he got back to his room; maybe Mickey would try to mumble a poor excuse for an apology or punch Ian in the face, or perhaps the both of them would have an unspoken agreement not to talk to each other at all. Ian went over these options in his head on the walk back to the dorms.

 

There weren't any other foreseeable options. There were no other circumstances Ian could think of that would come from their drunken make-out session and awkward morning. Unless Mickey wasn't in the room, one of those three things would happen; if he wasn't there, they would just happen later on.

 

Apparently Mickey hadn't gotten that memo, because when Ian unlocked the door of their room and walked in, he was decidedly not doing any of the things Ian thought he would be.

 

He was wrapped around a girl from the grade below them, both of their shirts on the floor, mouths pressed together.

 

Ian dropped his dufflebag of books on the floor and stared.

 

The girl pulled away and looked at him. "Oh," she said uncomfortably. "Um, Mickey, we should probably go somewhere else."

 

Neither boy looked at her. They were staring at each other with such fire between them that she eventually rose, mumbled something about seeing herself out, grabbed her shirt, and left the room.

 

Their stare didn't break.

 

"Way to bust my game, Gallagher," Mickey finally said, but his voice was too thick to be joking.

 

For an infinite moment, Ian didn't say anything. He wasn't sure he could.

 

Tears stung the back of his eyes. He fought back the tight knot at the base of his throat.

 

"You can't lie to me, Mick," he said quietly, jaw clenched. "You can lie to that girl, and yourself, and everyone else, but not to me. I see you. You're running away from your feelings for me because you're scared. And whether you're gay or not, bi, or straight, whatever—I don't care. But you kissed me, and I _know_ there's some part of you that wants me, because you can't—you can't look at me the way you do and not feel anything. So when you're ready to stop running, let me know. Because I'll be waiting."

 

The only proof he had that Mickey had heard him was the increased tension in Mickey's shoulders. Otherwise he didn't move, or speak, or do anything to indicate he understood what Ian had said.

 

Regardless of whether or not he had, Ian was done. He couldn't stay here—in their room or at the Academy. He needed to leave, to get as far away as possible.

 

Frank was still in Europe, and he'd probably let Ian stay with him if Ian promised not to bother him. He'd always spoken vitriol at school, anyway. You didn't need an education to brew good beer, he always said, and considering how much money their family made off Gallagher brew, perhaps he was right.

 

Without another word Ian left the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. It swung open, an open invitation for Mickey to pursue.

 

But no one called Ian's name as he walked away.

 


	11. Reparations

Ian had one more night before he would leave. He would wait until the next day, gather Lip—and maybe Mandy, because he'd always liked her—to help him move his stuff out of the dorm, and hail a cab to take him back to Lincoln Park. Until then he crashed in Lip's room, obstinately refusing to talk about what had made him decide to leave the Academy, and hiding his puffy eyes under a pillow.

 

It was barely early evening, so both of them laid awake in Lip's bed for a long time. Lip clattered away at a research paper for his advanced physics class; Ian tried his best not to cry.

 

He didn't need Mickey Milkovich, and he didn't need the fucking Chicago Academy. It wasn't like he'd ever really cared about school, though he might miss English class. Perhaps in his travels he could take classes online, or make it his mission to read all the classics...

 

Somehow, despite his pain, Ian fell asleep that night. It was a rest filled with uneasy dreams: he was on the roof of the Academy, and Mickey was there, but they were so close to the edge, and Mickey was falling... Ian was falling... he was approaching the ground at top speed, reveling in the feel of the wind around him, but Mickey was shrieking... he was calling out for Ian, calling his name over and over...

 

"Ian!" Lip yelled, loud enough to wake his this time. "Ian, get up. Hurry."

 

"Wha—?" Ian mumbled. He lifted a hand to rub sleep out of his eye and was intercepted by Lip grabbing it.

 

"Dude, we gotta go. Mickey's been kicked out."

 

A shot of adrenalin went through Ian's previously half-asleep body and he sprung from the bed. "Mi—wait—Mickey? Why?"

 

It was a stupid question, because there were dozens of reasons the school would want to kick Mickey out. Hundreds, even. Ian wasn't sure there was a rule in the book he hadn't broken.

 

"Security did a random check of your room last night," Lip said as he and Ian rushed through the halls toward the elevator. "They found cigarettes and a pocket-knife in Mickey's things."

 

"They—shit," Ian cursed, barely able to process what was happening. "So what if they found a pocket-knife? Where are we going?"

 

"It's against the rules to have any sort of concealed weapons on campus. He'll be expelled," Lip said flatly. He jammed the elevator buttons harder than he needed to. "We're going to find Mandy."

 

They soared up to the next level of the building and rushed over to Ian's dorm. The door was unlocked; when they opened it Mandy was sitting on Mickey's bed, face in her hands.

 

She lifted her head when they came in. Dark streaks of makeup marred her cheeks. All around her Mickey's possessions were thrown, his sheets askance against the mattress.

 

"They fucking took him," she sobbed, voice somewhere between furious and desolate. "They fucking took him to back to the South Side. Now we're never getting out."

 

"How do you know he's expelled?" Ian asked.

 

"They fucking told me he was," she replied bitterly. "And I bet they were fuckin' happy about it, too. Probably all took bets on when the poor kids would get kicked out. I bet that's the only reason they even searched his room." She buried her head in her hands again, voice dissolving in angry sobs.

 

Lip moved over to her and reached a hand out. "Mandy," he began.

 

"Don't touch me," she said, and stood to leave. "I have to get the fuck out of here before they get the cops to escort me, too."

 

"Maybe you can stay," Lip said.

 

Mandy scoffed. "I'm not staying without my brother."

 

"Mandy, wait," Ian said hurriedly. She paused in the doorway and looked at him expectantly. "Tell him I said sorry."

 

She gazed at him for a few more seconds before exiting the room. After a moment Lip ran after her.

 

Suddenly alone, Ian slid to the floor. With tired eyes he looked at the mess across from him.

 

A knife. Mickey had had a pocketknife.

 

Ian thought back to the first day, when Mickey had gone through his things. He'd borrowed a knife then. Did he have any of his own? Ian couldn't remember.

 

Could that have been Ian's knife, the one that had gotten Mickey into trouble?

 

For the first time Ian let his eyes slide over to his own side of the room. There wasn't a book out of place.

 

So Mandy was right, then. It was prejudice. They were looking for an excuse to kick the Milkoviches out.

 

Ian ground his teeth. He was filled with a sudden strong urge to protect Mickey. Seek him, find him, help him. Make sure he had a different school to go to, even if it was the local public one. Make sure he had a place to stay and money for food. It was December, after all, it the air was freezing; there was no way he could survive outside. Would Mickey have to go back to the house his father pistol-whipped him in? Would he prefer it there, anyway, since he was always complaining about how stuck up the Academy was?

 

Just before he rushed to stand, Ian took a deep breath. For all he knew, Mickey didn't even want to see him. They hadn't exactly parted on a positive note. He wasn't sure Mickey ever wanted to see him again, wasn't sure he was anything more than a reminder of who Mickey really was, and what he really wanted.

 

And more than anything, Ian didn't want to make Mickey uncomfortable. He liked Mickey too much, and knew how much the other boy had dealt with already.

 

If Mickey wanted to contact him, he would. He had a cell phone, even if it was old and the screen was cracked. Ian's number was in the address book. Short of that, Mickey knew exactly where to find Ian most days after school; if he really wanted to see Ian, he could hang out in the park across the street. Even recently, after the temperature dropped, Ian sat there to smoke and study. He pretended the hope that Mickey would contact him wasn't the only reason he'd stayed at the school.

 

With a heavy sigh, Ian decided it would be best to wait for Mickey to make a move. _If he makes a move,_ a voice in the back of his head whispered, but Ian couldn't think about that. The idea of never talking to Mickey again was too terrifying. They were best friends. Certainly Mickey would want to talk at some point.

 

Ian snickered to himself, somewhat hysterically.

 

For a while there at the beginning of the semester, he'd thought this year was going to work out. Now, as his classes came to a wrap and prepared for their respective midterms and the weather became liable to freeze bones, Ian realized how foolish he'd been.

 

He would see Mickey, that he was sure of. All he had to do was wait and hope it didn't take too long for Mickey to reach out to him.

 

*******

 

Over the next four weeks, Ian spent an embarrassing amount of time lying on his back in bed, rubbing at his eyes and waiting desperately for a phone call. Or a text message. Something to reassure himself that he hadn't imagined the chemistry that had been there between him and Mickey, the sexual energy, the drunken kiss.

 

Lip tried to get him to come out of his room more than once, and every so often he did, either going to the park or the gym or, sometimes, when Lip's persuasion techniques were particularly good, skipping dinner in the dining hall to go to the Chinese food place they both love. Still, Lip began to realize how painful this really was for Ian, and by extension, how much he cared about Mickey. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Lip didn't pull judgmental faces when Ian talked about him (which was often).

 

"You just don't understand where he comes from," Ian had told Lip one day, and Lip, nodding, had agreed. Of course he didn't: neither of them could. It was like that time Fiona had dated Steve Lishman, that South Side mechanic. The different lifestyles were too much for them to handle.

 

Sometimes people who would be perfect for each other in another life just couldn't make it work in this one. Ian thought about that a lot. He worried over it like a wound.

 

In any case, after a month passed since the Milkoviches had left, Ian still couldn't get his mind off of Mickey. He was starting to think he'd never get the call he'd been waiting for. Perhaps his perceptions had been wrong, and Mickey really wouldn't ever get up the courage to show Ian his true feelings.

 

Ambitiously Ian decided that, should one more day pass without contact from Mickey, he would be the one to initiate it. Nothing too brash or heavy yet. Just something to remind Mickey that he'd meant it when he said he'd be waiting when Mickey was ready.

 

After this decision he turned his phone off, shoved it in his bedside drawer, and busied himself with other things. He refused to wait by the phone anymore.

 

That night, before Ian went to bed, he turned his phone back on. He wasn't expecting much. Unsurprised by the image of a dead frog Carl had sent him with the message, "figured out what would happen if I put it in the microwave!!!" Ian scrolled through the rest of his messages. Nothing new. Nothing interesting.

 

A new message lit up at the top of his screen.

 

From: Mick Milkovich

Im ready to stop running

 

Ian read it twice. Then he whooped.

 

He'd give it a good ten minutes before responding. That would be good, right? Long enough that Mickey didn't think he was waiting by the phone, but short enough so that Mickey didn't start to panic.

 

Oh, fuck it. Ian couldn't wait any longer.

 

To: Mick Milkovich

I want to see you.

 

It neared midnight, but Ian would trek across the city for Mickey regardless of the time. Ian was desperate to see him.

 

From: Mick Milkovich

6 pm tomorrow. The Alibi Room on the South Side

 

Fighting hard against the urge to keep the conversation going, to give Mickey a call, to hear his voice and be updated on his life, Ian texted back a quick agreement and turned his phone back off. He didn't want to bombard Mickey over text message—and anyway, part of Ian was worried they might see each other tomorrow and have nothing to say, or make awkward conversation the whole time. At least now they had a lot to go over. Like what Mickey was doing now that he was expelled, for example, and how Mandy was coping with being sent back home.

 

He had a difficult time getting to sleep that night. It was just like the night before the first day of school, and the familiar buzz of excitement and nerves kept Ian awake for hours.

 

The bundle of angst in his gut only increased into the next day and through his classes. It was impossible to concentrate on Geometry and English when he knew he would be seeing Mickey soon. He doodled stick figures and tiny hearts on his papers instead of taking notes.

 

He had it bad and he knew it.

 

As soon as he finished his homework he boarded the L, though it was only just after five and he knew he'd arrive early. But Ian decided sitting at the restaurant was better than pacing around his dorm room, so he hopped the train and tried not to tick nervously all the way downtown.

 

*******

 

The restaurant in question was a hole-in-the-wall; if it hadn't been for the adequate directions Mickey had texted him that day, he might have walked right by the Alibi Room.

 

He was half an hour early but, Ian noticed when he walked inside, he wasn't the only one.

 

"Gallagher," Mickey said with a grin. He held his arms out. "Ian."

 

Surprised at his initiation of contact in public, Ian allowed himself to be pulled into a hug. "You look good, Mickey. You look healthy."

 

"I'm feelin' pretty good," Mickey said. He looked giddy. "I missed ya."

 

"You did?" Ian asked as the two of them sat at opposite ends of a rickety table. The bubble of hope that was in his chest inflated even further. "I missed you, too. School's not the same without you."

 

"How is that shitty old place?"

 

"Shitty as ever," Ian laughed. "Nothing's really changed, except Lip is all mopey because Mandy's gone, and I'm..." he paused. "I wish my best friend was still around."

 

Mickey lifted a hand to scratch at his forehead, keeping his gaze on the floor. "Yeah, he wishes he was, too."

 

"How's the South Side?"

 

Mickey snorted. "Shitty as ever," he parroted. Ian smiled at him a little awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Before he could respond, Mickey called out to someone behind the counter. "Svetlana, hey."

 

A tall woman with dyed red hair and a pointed gaze found her way to their table.

 

"Ian, this is Svetlana. Svet, Ian," Mickey gave quick introductions. "Svetlana works upstairs."

 

She glared at Ian.

 

"Hello," she said, eyes piercing and Russian accent thick. "You are gayboy also?"

 

"I—" Ian stuttered, caught off guard.

 

"This one," she gestured to Mickey, "gay as could be. He tries to hide it for years, fools nobody except stupid father."

 

"Jesus Christ, all right, how 'bout you shut up now?" Mickey said, as if he regretted inviting her over.

 

"Um," Ian tried again, "What kind of work do you do upstairs?"

 

"Prostitution," Svetlana informed him.

 

"Um," Ian repeated.

 

"Okay, okay, get outta here." Mickey stood and made to guide her back toward the counter. "Don't you have someone waiting for blowjob upstairs?"

 

"You are the one waiting for blowjob. You have been waiting for blowjob from Carrotboy for month." She turned to Ian. "He gets drunk and talks about red-headed boy. He smashes mirror because he misses old roommate."

 

"Go the fuck away!" Mickey called, but she was already walking away with a smirk on her face. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, she likes to make an impression."

 

"Seems that way," Ian replied.

 

"Yeah, but she's not that bad," Mickey defended, and Ian couldn't help but feel moved by how quickly he could go from cursing a person off to arguing for his or her honor. "My dad knew her a while back, so she stayed with us for a while. Her old pimp stopped paying her so she moved the business upstairs here, and now she runs it like a pro. She's the baddest pimp around. And she's kind of a sister to me, which is why she was busting my balls."

 

"Is she okay?" Ian asked, because he couldn't help himself.

 

Mickey gave him a strange look. "'Course she's okay. She makes a living, treats the other girls fair. It's a good deal. What, you've never seen a prostitute before?"

 

"Well," Ian said. "No."

 

"Huh. Guess we know you didn't get your money from politics, then."

 

Ian smiled at him. "She seems interesting."

 

"She's nice when you get to know her. She told me if I ever need a kid she would be the surrogate, since, well," Mickey bit his lip, unsure. "Since I won't have kids of my own, probably."

 

This was the conversation Ian had been waiting for, the moment where Mickey made it clear that, yes, he was gay, and, yes, he acknowledged it. He wasn't ashamed. He was ready to stop running.

 

"Ready to order?" Mickey asked.

 

Ian glanced down; he hadn't even realized there was a menu. It was all pub food, sticky wings and french fries, but it sounded delicious. Mickey placed their orders at the counter, and when he came back they fell into comfortable conversation. Ian explained everything that had happened at school after Mickey left, from fights in the dining hall to tests he'd done well on, and Mickey detailed the time he spent working with his father.

 

"But isn't that illegal?" Ian asked, eyes wide as he listened to yet another story that involved fired bullets and a get-away car.

 

"Gotta make money somehow," Mickey pointed out. "We ain't all be born rich."

 

Plates of wings were put in front of them by a tall man with a ponytail, who smacked Mickey on the side of the head when he set the plates down. Mickey gave him the finger, but he was grinning. They dug into the food, which was, in Ian's not-so-expert opinion, fantastic.

 

Mickey told Ian he wasn't going back to school, with an expression on his face like he was nervous about how Ian might react. For his part, though, Ian just shrugged. They really did come from two different worlds, the two of them; Ian would get into any college he applied to because of his family name, and Mickey wasn't welcome in half the patronage of the South Side because of his.

 

For all their differences, though, Ian saw a lot of similarities. Both of their fathers were deadbeats, even if Ian's happened to be one with a bigger bank account. They were both stark defenders of their siblings. They were both able to understand where the other's point of view was based.

 

The only issue Ian was seeing was the gaping chasm between where their friendship was now and where it could be if they talked about any of the deeper things that had happened between them. Mickey seemed very much like he was avoiding that conversation, but Ian was determined to see it through.

 

"Listen, Mickey, we should talk about what happened," Ian said as their plates were cleared away.

 

Mickey looked at him.

 

"You said you wanted to stop running."

 

"I do. I am." He exhaled loudly and ran a hand up the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "We should go upstairs."

 

Ian's raised eyebrows were met with a chortle.

 

"Not like that," Mickey said. "But it's somewhere private. My dad, or... someone could come in at any moment. The Alibi's the most popular bar around here."

 

"The most popular bar around, and you brought me here?" Ian said mockingly as they stood and made for the stairs across the room, "Gosh, Mick, you must really care."

 

Mickey flipped him off, and Ian noted he was doing a lot of that lately.

 

The upstairs of the bar was dimly lit and smelled of cigarettes and filth. The sounds of sex came from somewhere across the room, from one of my many partitioned-off areas where the prostitutes worked.

 

"This is where you want to have our deep conversation?" Ian asked. He followed Mickey into one of the sections far away from the others. "In a brothel?"

 

"It ain't a fuckin' deep conversation," Mickey mumbled. They stood about a foot away in their tiny room, crowded by gray moveable walls. "It's just..." He took a deep breath. "I'm fuckin' gay. Are you happy now?"

 

The corner of Ian's mouth lifted, a breath away from a smile. "Almost, Mick. Don't look so miserable about it."

 

"I can't tell my dad."

 

"Then don't," Ian said honestly. "I don't give a shit if your dad knows. I just want you to know. And maybe, like, my family, and your sister."

 

Mickey chewed his lip and said nothing.

 

"Are we together?" Ian asked impulsively.

 

Blinking, Mickey said, "We're both here right now, aren't we?"

 

Ian's half-lipped smile broke into a grin.

 

Suddenly he remembered something. "You stole my knife."

 

Mickey laughed. "Nah, man. I was fixing it. I tried to borrow it the other day but the blade was all dull, so I sharpened it for you. I didn't realize I was gonna be expelled before I could give it back. And you know what happened after that." He took the knife in question out of his pocket and handed it to Ian. Just like he said, the blade was newly shiny. It was sharp to the touch—though when Ian reached a finger out towards it, Mickey objected loudly.

 

"No hurting yourself," he warned.

 

Ian grinned. "What, Mick, you care about me or somethin'?"

 

"Fuck you," Mickey said without heat. He tucked the knife into Ian's front pocket. "Maybe I do. Whatcha gonna do about it?"

 

Instead of answering in words, Ian responded by cupping Mickey's chin in his hands and leaning in for a kiss. It was as if his entire body gave over to Mickey when their lips touched; he could feel himself warming all over, filled with the lovely buzz of adoration and arousal.

 

It was one hundred times better to kiss Mickey when they were both sober. His hands could feel every contour on his face; his lips could taste every subtlety of his tongue. He could feel every crevice of Mickey's body when they molded themselves together, could touch the flat of Mickey's hips with his hands and rub the tight muscles of his back. The stale smells of the Alibi Room melted away and were replaced with the fresh smell of Mickey.

 

The longer they kissed the more Ian could feel, until something hard dug into Ian's leg and Ian gasped at the introduction. He hadn't felt another boy against him like this in so long—and this was Mickey, which made it infinitely more exciting. It was as if Ian had been waiting his entire life for this moment. He ground his hips into Mickey as Mickey did the same, and they developed a hot, heavy rhythm.

 

"Fuck," Ian breathed, when Mickey pulled away for long enough that they could both breathe. Before him, Mickey dropped to his knees. In Ian's arousal-fogged mind it was difficult to register what was happening. "Fuck, that was—Mick, what are you—"

 

But Mickey was already unzipping Ian's jeans, and Ian quickly realized what was going on.

 

"Oh, shit," he gasped, because just the thought of Mickey's mouth on him was enough to put Ian on the edge. It was so soon; they'd only kissed twice. And they were in a brothel. As far as timing went, Ian wasn't sure about this; but it was Mickey, spread out and revealing himself in front of him, ready to give Ian what he'd wanted for so long, and Ian couldn'tsay no. "That's—you don't have to—"

 

"Ian," Mickey said, lips inches away from Ian's exposed cock, "Shut up."

 

He wrapped his mouth around Ian and the room spun. "Oh, shit," Ian said again, followed by a babbling of words and noises he couldn't control. "Fuck, that's so—that's so good, Mickey, you're so good—you're amazing, wow—"

 

He stuggled against fluttering eyelids to watch Mickey. When Mickey raised his eyes and they made eye contact, that was it. With a cry that was definitely heard by the other people upstairs, Ian came. Mickey held his hips steady and swallowed what Ian gave him.

 

"That—wow," Ian stuttered, unable to produce a full sentence. His body was spent; he collapsed against the probably-filthy plastic-covered bed behind them. "God, you—you've done that before?"

 

Mickey shrugged. "No. But it was good, right?" he looked a bit desperate for the compliment, and Ian, overcome by affection, lifted himself off the bed to pull Mickey closer.

 

"So good," he said. "Jesus Christ."

 

They stood after that, both eager to get away from the bed and the brothel.

 

"We should, uh," Mickey said. "Go somewhere. I mean, we can come here when we need to be alone, but—"

 

"Mickey, no offense, but I never want to be in a brothel again for the rest of my life," Ian laughed. "We can go to my house. My family's cool, they don't care. And I have a nice, soft bed. King-sized. Ready to be disheveled."

 

They kissed and exited the Alibi Room, with a promise to Svetlana and the pony-tailed guy behind the counter (Mickey said his name was Kevin, and Ian had a feeling he was going to like him) that they'd be back soon.

 

"Let's go to my house," Mickey said out of the blue.

 

"Okay, sure," Ian agreed. He noted how carefully Mickey was watching him, but he wasn't sure why.

 

They walked to Mickey's house from the Alibi Room, Mickey pointing out different things on their way.

 

"That's where Ken Morris was shot in a drive-by," he said as he gestured to a park made up of graying grass and a broken-down swingset. He pointed to a spot on the sidewalk across the street. "My brother was stabbed there once in a bad deal, but he's fine now."

 

"Holy shit," Ian muttered. "Someone was shot at a park? That's terrible." All the different areas Mickey pointed out, all the instances of violence that Ian had never considered, never had to worry about before, were making him depressed. The rotting buildings around them didn't help. He couldn't fathom how the South Side, this place darkened by poverty, had been around all these years without Ian giving it a second thought. Without him trying to help end the poverty that disenfranchised the people here.

 

The two of them walked up steps to what was presumably Mickey's house, and they stopped on the stoop outside.

 

Mickey eyed him carefully. "You gonna run now?"

 

"What?" Ian was taken aback. "Of course not. Why would I?"

 

Jaw clenched, Mickey just shrugged. "It's different from where you grew up."

 

"So?" Ian said, still confused. It took him a moment to process that Mickey had been testing him, seeing if his rough neighborhood would scare Ian away."Mickey, it's not your fault this is where you come from," Ian said, seriously and with honesty. "I'm proud of you. I mean, you're amazing. You're living here and you're doing fine and... it makes me sad, yeah, because there are so many people living in poverty, but... fuck, I don't know."

 

The only reaction was a stare, like Mickey was waiting for more.

 

"No one has a perfect life," Ian said. "You're poor. I'm bipolar. Lip's a genius and he pisses it away. We all have shitty things in our lives, Mick. You don't have to apologize for where you come from."

 

A smile crossed Mickey's face, and he dipped his head to hide it. Ian tried not to be offended that Mickey thought he could scare him off so easily.

 

"So are we actually going inside, or what?"

 

“We’re going inside,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes. He paused for a moment, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “And you can, um, stay for however long you want.”

 

Then Mickey opened the door and invited Ian into his home. It was a lot like being welcomed into his life.

 


	12. Epilogue

Firstly, he no longer spent his days alone. He never had to worry about a lack of friends, because Mickey was always right there, either beside him or a call away. They became close, the kind of close Ian had only ever felt before with his immediate family; he would risk his life for Mickey, would do whatever it took to make him happy. Rather than binding them together, though, this was freeing: Ian put all his love into Mickey, and he knew Mickey was doing the same for him. It wasn’t always obvious by the things he said, but considering how careful Mickey was that Ian took his medication daily, and kept an eye on him to ensure he was happy and healthy (and never sexually frustrated), Ian couldn’t doubt it.

 

Ian realized that just because someone expressed love differently than him didn’t mean the love wasn’t there. It warmed him from the inside out, and even when Mickey seemed less-than happy, when he struggled with himself, when he snapped at Ian or bit back gay slurs, Ian knew the part of him that called Ian “mumbles” and stroked his hair when he thought Ian was asleep was still there.

 

Secondly, Ian learned more about Gallagher Beer than he ever would have imagined. This was because he pulled some strings and got Mickey a job with the company. Since he was out of the Academy, and didn’t intend to go back to public school, Mickey needed some way to make money. The idea of him selling weapons to greasy men made Ian’s skin crawl, so they compromised: Ian got Mickey a job for the weekdays and didn’t push him about what he did with his family on the weekends.

 

Mickey’s job was to sell Gallagher Beer to the bars on the South Side that usually sprung for the cheaper stuff. The Alibi Room, of course, was the first place he won over; from then on, he was one of the best salespeople in the Chicago area. Ian wasn’t sure if he achieved this by charming people or threatening them, but either way, it worked. The company loved him. And as much as he liked seeing Mickey in his formal salesman clothes, he loved the weekends, when Mickey reverted back to his usual guinea tee and baggy pants ensemble.

 

After a few months on the Gallagher Beer Corp. payroll, Mickey had enough money to buy a little apartment. He stayed on the South Side, because it was his home, and Ian visited him most days after school. Sometimes he even brought Debbie--who constantly asked Mickey for his opinions on things like America's largely unsuccessful war on poverty and its effect on gun violence. Mickey, for his part, couldn't tell Debbie much about the politics of it, but he never looked annoyed at her prying questions, and he scarcely flinched away from telling her the gritty details about a lack of gun control on Chicago's South Side—or Carl, who was a little too interested in Mickey's weapon collection. Even Lip came once, and make decent conversation, and only left after he clapped Mickey on the back and told Ian he was glad they'd worked it out.

 

Ian's family loved Mickey almost as much as he did, and he couldn't think about that without wanting to burst with happiness.

 

The third thing that changed for Ian, which happened largely thanks to Mickey’s new apartment and the privacy it granted them: Ian and Mickey had sex. A lot of sex.

 

This was only amplified in the summer, when the Academy was closed for the year and Ian was able to visit Mickey at his apartment so often he practically lived there. Even after all the time they spent as roommates, he still learned something knew about Mickey every day.

 

Like, for example, that Mickey loved to give head.

 

“Oh, God,” Ian gasped, hands knotted in Mickey’s hair. “That’s—that’s so good, Mickey, you’re so— _oh!_ ”

 

Mickey, avidly sucking Ian’s cock, grinned as best as he could considering how his mouth was othewise occupied. Blue eyes raised to meet Ian’s, and it was all Ian could do not to come right there.

 

“Stop, stop,” he said, hurriedly. “I want to come in you.”

 

As quickly as possible, Mickey scrambled back, shucked his pants off, and bared his ass to Ian. He’d been waiting for that.

 

With a soft laugh, Ian leaned forward. They’d done this more times than he could count, but each time was equally amazing. Mickey laid on his elbows on his bed, backside in the air, tilting himself up so Ian could work him open.

 

With both hands Ian spread Mickey’s cheeks and breathed hotly onto the exposed area. Mickey’s hole twitched, and he groaned.

 

Sometimes Ian wasn’t sure what Mickey liked better: the sex or the build up.

 

Ian nipped gently at Mickey’s cheeks and licked a slow path from his lower back to his exposed asshole. When his tongue finally made contact with that hidden place, Mickey whimpered.

 

Steadily at first, Ian glided his flat tongue around the wrinkled edges. He stiffened his tongue and pushed the rim apart, tasting Mickey as he lapped at his hole, forcing his tongue in as far as it could go. Spit dribbled down Ian's chin as he worked the tip of his finger into that spit-shined hole.

 

“Fuck,” Mickey hissed. “Fucking—fuck me.”

 

Obediently, Ian pulled back and slick his fingers with the nearby jar of lube. When they were coated he slipped a finger delicately into Mickey, staring into Mickey’s face, turned back to watch Ian.

 

“You can do better than that,” Mickey challenged, as Ian moved one finger carefully inside him. “ _Gallagher._ ”

 

The use of his last name always worked Ian up; it was a reminder of the months he’d spent bursting with unresolved sexual tension, and it just about pushed him over the edge. No longer delicate, Ian used on lubed hand to reach around for Mickey’s dick, and worked two more fingers into his asshole.

 

When Mickey’s only response was a soft moan and not sarcastic commentary, Ian knew he was doing a good job.

 

He lined himself up to Mickey’s hole and pushed in slowly, stopping after the first few inches so Mickey could adjust. The stretch of it was the best part for both of them. Mickey loved the feeling of being opened wide, so much so that they had a small but growing collection of sex toys, including several enormous dildos and a set of Ben Wa balls. Ian loved the feeling of taught muscles surrendering to him.

 

When they were both used to the sensations, Ian pushed the rest of his dick in and began to fuck Mickey, slowly at first, but with increasing thrusts and precision. At one point Mickey cried out, and Ian proceeded to fuck that same spot, over and over, until Mickey’s whole body tensed up and he came all over the sheets.

 

Changing angles so he didn’t overwork Mickey’s sensitive prostate, Ian kept up a steady pace until his thrusts turned erratic, and with Mickey’s rough voice prompting him to _come, come on, come inside me_ , Ian gave one final push as far into Mickey as he could and came.

 

They collapsed together on the bed, Ian’s chest aligning with Mickey’s back and they curled together above the blankets.

 

“Love you,” Mickey mumbled, voice etched with post-coital bliss.

 

“Love you, too, Mick,” Ian murmured into his hair.


End file.
